Chapter Text

۝

Prologue

People disappear all the time.

Kids get lost but not found, housewives throw off their shackles, men shirk responsibility to family and duty. Staying with a friend, getting into the wrong car, taking a shortcut home. Packed bags, no note, hastily dyed hair. The cliché of a carton of milk or a pack of fags.

People have a tendency to be found again, too. Stuffed into an old trunk, scattered into pieces far and wide, strangled blue and going black. Happily eating breakfast with new people, in a new life. Shivering and starved. Grateful or cornered.

Emerging from a grave they dug themselves into and out of.

Lost or hiding or wrong place and wrong time, disappearances usually have an explanation.

Usually.

۝

Chapter One

24 October 2024

Ghost parks the car as he squints up at this week's stay through the windscreen. Most haven't been that long, a few days here, another few there, plenty of nights spent sleeping under the stars despite the growing chill, curled around each other the same as when they’re trying to fit together on the back seat. Easier for Darragh, though less so with Ghost taking up all the space.

"Aye, I know," he comments at Ghost's silent scepticism, "but after the last, this will be a dream. They even serve breakfast!"

As if that's not the bare minimum, but Ghost hums his appreciation all the same. More for the prospect of a bed, used as he is to cots or rough ground or sleepless nights taking watch. Maybe he’s adapting, more likely he’s just getting bloody old. 

"Be nice to have a pillow instead of bein’ one," he grunts, well aware it makes little difference; it’s only a matter of time before they fuse if they’re just sleeping near each other. 

Darragh's grin warms his stiff bones after long hours on the road without working heat, and Ghost resists the urge to roll his eyes at both of them while he turns the engine off.

"Not my fault you're so bloody comfortable, babe," Darragh teases after a beat, chin tilted up in challenge. 

Certainly not in question. It rarely is one; Ghost is always soft on him — except when he’s not. Except when he wasn’t, for different reasons and long ago now. 

Ghost undoes his seat belt before giving in briefly, no more than a peck for Darragh’s trouble. Plenty of time for that later. Although, looking at the guest house he booked them on his phone yesterday, maybe not. It's clearly a family establishment, but more than that, it’s old. It'll have thin walls and creaking…everything. Especially if they get into it.

They step out of the car, some second—more like fifth—hand rattling creature of a thing, fit for a family yet barely fitting them. Well, Darragh fits fine. Their size difference is almost comical at times, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't like it. A sentiment they share, and one of many. Their meeting was one of the few good things born of working with Shadow Company; Graves’ betrayal led to a new team-up. 

Graves might get what's coming to him one day, but it's no longer Ghost's concern.

Nothing of that life is, left in the rearview mirror. Months ago, not the few weeks they’ve been on the road.

They'll stay here as the calendar flips to November. Another twenty days before it marks a year since, but thinking of it is still enough to tighten his chest, make it difficult to breathe for the moment Ghost allows himself to linger on it. By then, he’ll be in Ireland, meeting the family. Blood or not, Ghost lost the last of his, and that's an unfairly bitter thought to have. One he doesn't mean, but does.

And one he pushes aside as they haul their duffels out of the boot, though Price hovers as Ghost's namesake just over his shoulder and barely within view. 

Part of the job, he still tells himself. Not that Ghost has one now, though he knows little else. After, when his head clears, he’ll decide on his next life. In the new year, unless they get tired of each other beforehand, unlikely as it seems.

It’s a long time to be away from home. Never felt like much of one, and he's glad for — it doesn't feel right to call this a distraction. It's not one, neither the trip nor Darragh, though Ghost isn't in denial enough to be blind to him taking the opportunity. Darragh knows him well, as well as anyone still does. Loves him well, too. Wholly, and unafraid of everything he is, everything he carries and tries to leave behind. 

Ghost didn't think that he still could, but he returns the feeling. Even through the numbing cloud hanging over him that he pretends isn’t there.

Still.

He bumps into Darragh none too softly. "An Irishman and an Englishman walk into a Scottish inn…"

"Says the innkeeper - Christ, they've no bloody clue," Darragh finishes the joke, nudging him back with more force to be effective, "how many times are you gonna tell that one?"

"Still good," Ghost shrugs, amused at himself and pushing off on the gravel driveway while he adjusts his duffel over his shoulder, "haven't pulled a knife yet, have you?"

"Not recently," Darragh agrees without missing a beat, trailing behind him slightly to take in more of the house.

Not usually the one pulling a knife, either, but Ghost conveys his point with no more than a pointed look.

They don't quite hurry, but Ghost's few long strides do mean that the much smaller of the two of them has to half jog to keep up with him. Something they're both well-used to, but never stops being something to poke fun at on his part, or complain about on Darragh’s.

Right now, it's not the drizzle Ghost minds, almost warm despite the time of year. He's hungry and tired, and he wouldn’t mind a shower before a soft place to stretch out. If nothing else, Ghost learned that their hosts don’t stay weary of him for too long when treated with a basic level of politeness. Something that doesn't quite come naturally to either of them, not ever in his case, and definitely not after this long among some of the biggest cunts he's ever run into.

Some of the best men the world has to offer, too.

It sounds mean, not strictly counting his partner among them, but Darragh is a cunt. And Ghost loves him. A lot, even though things haven't been easy between their work, the end of it, Ghost’s — pain, for lack of a better word. It comes in waves, too. Five stages, but it's not linear and moving through one doesn't mean being bloody done with it, either. One day Ghost can ignore it, the next it's as if he's back there again.

He refused his diagnosis—enough sway left for that—but knew it meant moving on. Keeping them safe. Knew it meant being caught in between.

Fit to be neither soldier nor civilian.

He takes the short steps up to the front door two at a time, grinning at Darragh’s huffy little "show-off" behind him, and pushes the door open to let him go in first.

An older, homely woman looks up from her book at the bell chiming overhead, and she visibly takes them in over her reading glasses before she smiles and motions them further inside. 

"Good afternoon, dearies," she greets them in a heavy accent, and Darragh approaches her first, Ghost in tow behind him like so often when it comes to human interaction if he doesn’t need to take charge, "now, I can guess easily which name yer under. Crean, or am I wrong?"

"Not at all," Darragh affirms his surname, usually pronounced correctly from the second they crossed over into Scotland — they're not the same, Ghost knows, but Irish and Scottish have more in common with each other than with English. For one, Ghost doesn't understand more than a few words of either. "Sorry that we're a bit late, took the scenic route from Aberdeen, had a few stops on the way."

"Perfectly understandable," she nods, glancing over her computer screen as she—presumably—pulls their reservation up, "Irish, are ye? Rare compared to all the English we see."

Ghost zones out a little, taking in his surroundings beyond the entry and the sign to the emergency exit; the back door, out into the garden. From here, he sees a dog, Labrador, sleeping in the middle of the hallway; a spot where Ghost assumes he usually finds a bit of sun through the window over the stairs' first landing. It's latticed like the ones in front, stained-glass in the top part of them, framed in old and slightly weathered wood. Rustic, this place, lacy curtains and faded rugs, but charming. They're close to the river, too, though not so close he'd be able to see from one of the windows upstairs. 

Maybe from the roof, but that’s hardly a normal position to take up without a rifle in his hands. 

They still feel empty. 

Some nights it’s for the best.

"Ye’ve a room with a view," their host addresses him, and Ghost makes an inquisitive noise as his attention shifts back. "First floor, looking out over the garden. You're free to enjoy it if the weather turns nice enough, too, of course. Breakfast in the kitchen at the back of the house, from seven until nine most days. I say most, because sometimes my husband’s on duty, and he's no morning person. But what's ours is yers, really, ye can help yerselves any time of day."

She finally pauses for a breath, but it's clear that it is a pause when Ghost adjusts his duffel and twitches towards the stairs. 

"How rude of me, I forgot to introduce myself, so distracted I was by this one's - name," the falter in her words is almost imperceptible, but not quite, though it's not as if Darragh minds anyone taking notice of his prosthetic eye; he'd opt for a more natural looking one if he did. 

It amuses him, the stares and whispers — Ghost did say he's a cunt, and can’t say that he’s not the same at times. Bit o’ shock and awe. 

"It comes from the Gaelic for heart, ye ken. Not directly, but a nice thought, bein' named for love. I'm Maud MacArthur, my husband is Clyde, and that there," she points down the hall to the dog, who blinks but doesn't raise his head, "that's Hettie. She's nigh as old as I am in dog years. Won't bother ye none, but ye might need to give her a light push in the kitchen. Thinks sitting in front of the fridge might get her some treats."

Ghost chuckles, and mentally corrects himself. Her head, not his. Fairly cute, though he prefers cats mostly. Nice and independent. Not much for a walk, though.

"Simon," he offers, still far from used to the change back, to people not just knowing him from mask and reputation, "nice to meet you. Lovely home."

"Ah, not both Irish, then," she smiles, "had me fooled for a bit there, strong and silent type. Especially with those freckles."

Ghost smiles in turn, willing to pretend along with her that those are the most notable thing about his appearance, like Darragh's name was more interesting than his eye. They make a pair, the two of them, and they're used to the looks whether people assume they're together or not. They don't, usually, but it's not in question here, not with a single room and a double bed booked.

"What's yer surname, dear? Married?"

"No, ma'am, it's Riley," Ghost ignores the smallest of shifts in Darragh's shoulders, the slightest pause of his breath, but offers freely; "together two years."

"Oh, how lovely. Well, enjoy yer stay, ye two. If ye need anything, I'll be right here," she hands Darragh back his ID—Ghost didn't notice him handing it over, taking in the house for a moment—along with the key to their room, "first floor like I told ye, furthest door on yer right. Whole house ‘s yers to explore, all we ask is to keep it down after ten and wipe yer shoes on the way in. We've only got a single lass up aside from ye, so if you feel like joining us for dinner, there'll be plenty to share."

"We might just take you up on that," Darragh nods as if really considering it, like he hasn't been complaining about his empty stomach for the last two hours, "thank you kindly, ma’am."

“Och, just Maud’ll do just fine. Make yerselves at home,” she waves them down the hall, crow’s feet standing out on her pleased face. 

With that, they head past Hettie—who might as well be comatose now that she’s seen them, not a twitch when Darragh stops to pet her—and upstairs to their room. It's not big or lavish, but the ceilings are nearly as high as downstairs, the bed large, and the same latticed windows overlook the back garden, framed by a still-green tree so close that they could use it to climb outside.

No threats of anyone climbing up, no matter that they could. Ghost doesn't need to remind himself. He takes stock of risks and exits and people, still. But that's not — that's ingrained, and most nights he sleeps well. All the better with Darragh beside him or in his arms now that they can have their fill. Even if he kicks in his sleep, and despite how he smothers Ghost with all that hair. Not with his presence, and if he's honest, that's something Ghost worried about when they planned this trip.

Not — even in his own head, that makes it sound like he doesn't like him, which couldn't be further from the truth. He's not sure if he's ever been this attached to anyone. Romantically speaking. 

Don't go there. Don't.

It’s just that they've not had much chance before. A weekend here and there, sometimes a week, and teaming up with his company sporadically was more like going on holiday than work, no matter how much blood they spilled and that they had to keep their hands to themselves. Mostly. Plenty of downtime, really.

This isn't close to new, but it's different now. Different, and easier than he thought it'd be. Natural, when nothing else feels like it used to. When he felt at all. Especially after.

"Good thing there's plenty to do around here," Darragh comments while dropping his bag on the bed, rolling his shoulders, "bed's nice though. Big. Been a while."

Ghost snorts, elbowing him aside to put his own bag down, too. "No time for that with your itinerary."

"Oi, nothing's set in stone. We can stay here all week and only come out for food, though you're not getting out of seeing Nessie. Absolutely no fuckin' chance," Darragh leans into him, and making eye contact won't work from this angle, but Ghost side steps him with a grin to himself. He's not close to falling, though, just as used to their games as Ghost is. "Bet Maud won't even mind. Much."

"Might gag you to make sure," Ghost nudges him out of his space again, tempted to trail his hand up higher, grab the stupid bun Darragh put his hair in, make him reconsider all week. Except it'd only convince him more, and himself along with it. "We allowed to smoke in here?"

"Getting a man a riled up for nothing…smoking's supposed to be for after you fuck my brains out," Darragh complains, but he leaves Ghost's side to open the window. "Email said it's fine as long as we open a window and keep it to a few. Good thing I didn't pick a hotel, huh?"

"Very good," Ghost hums as he joins him at the windowsill, taking a breath to smell the petrichor and wet grass, rotting leaves and moist dirt, the slight but pleasant stink of a day or two without a shower on Darragh's skin.

They haven't done much on their way over other than drive and stop for views. It—not just his scent, barely there as it is, recognizable to Ghost all the same—reminds him of work, but not in a bad way. A comfort, almost. In a way. Even if work brings the rest of his memories. There’s good there, too. 

He's been doing alright without it. Better than he thought he would, despite being directionless, despite failing to adjust quite all the way, left to his own devices and vices. His own rules to follow. Ghost has enough of them to keep himself tethered, it's just that November creeps closer, snakes long fingers around his throat. They'll be in Ireland by the time the date rolls around, most likely, not spoken but implied in their loose plans. It feels a bit like desertion, though Price would never take it as such. Not that.

Ghost lights a fag before he offers the pack to Darragh to hide for the drop in his mood, trying to shake it off, trying to at least hide it better. He doesn't need to, but it's the principle. Prove to himself, maybe, that he's managing well. He is, all things considered. 

Making it bigger than it should be, too, and at the same time — well. 

It was his choice, leaving. And Sahani—Moose, his former teammate and now captain of it, promoted when Ghost refused his own—argued that just some time away would be enough, that the task force would remain and always have a place for him, that he belonged there with them, that—

He had his points. Ghost had his reasons.

"Don't tell me you're thinking hard," Darragh pulls him out of it, knowing but not judging, no pity, nothing but a handhold on the rock face, "I'm dating you for your looks, not for you to try using that brain. Though I wouldn't say no to doing it mask-on again sometime."

"So you've said," Ghost grins as he takes a drag of his smoke, unable to resist skipping his fingers up Darragh's spine to trail them over the back of his neck and the wispy hair at his nape, "might see about that, if you trust we won't keep the whole house up."

Ghost doesn't, but if they're getting up to some play, he has plenty of ways to keep Darragh quiet.

They look at each other as Darragh pretends not to melt into his touch, exact same thoughts reflected in his eyes. "I don't trust that at all. But you can do something about it, if you're so inclined. Mentioned a gag just now…"

A familiar game, and one Ghost enjoys too much to keep his cock from stirring at the teasing, no matter that he has no intention of following through right now. But he grabs Darragh's neck a little rougher, not too much, just to give him a taste of it for later, making sure they're on the same page there, too. 

"We'll see about that," Ghost growls for the shiver it earns him, the fight he'll put up, the fun of making him wait for it, even if that means making himself wait, too.

"Aye, we will…fuck, got me throbbing already," Darragh breathes a laugh, turning to lean sideways against the windowsill and show it off. Tempting, though Ghost only leans down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Christ, you always gotta be such a tease?"

Ghost squeezes his nape as he releases him, trying to keep a smug smile off his face — without success, but he doesn't try that hard, either. "Don't make it so easy and you won't get teased. Simple action and reaction, Dar. We eating here, or off to a pub?"

It takes him a second to reply, between smoking and making a face—cute, but ineffective—probably a little pissed at the change in topic, but hiding it well enough. Ghost is a patient man, though. Most of the time. When he’s so inclined.

"Pub, but we should pick up some wine or brandy one night, thank our hosts. They're giving us this room for next to nothing," he nods to himself, making plans Ghost isn't too fond of, though one night won't kill him "Thinking Loch Ness tomorrow instead of Friday, said on the news about that storm, remember?"

Ghost hums his agreement, refusing to start another back and forth about how it's always bloody raining anyway. Which isn't entirely true, but long hours in the car and avoiding talking about the past or the future means finding something else to say. Or do, his cock reminds him, twitching hard at the memories they’ve been building. They've mostly had a good time though, minor arguments aside, and half of those only lead somewhere fun anyway. 

They've fucked a lot. Or just fucked around. Hands down trousers at opportune and less opportune moments, kisses leading to where they really shouldn't, a raspy throat to save a mess. Too easy, so it's only fair that Darragh craves a struggle. Ghost can't say he minds.

Which doesn't usually involve him wearing his mask again, but that was common when they barely saw each other elsewhere. Pavlovian, Ghost thinks, the reaction on his end.

He never much cared for the theory with the cat. Something can't be both alive and dead at once, and not knowing doesn't change that.

Things are as they are.

۝

1 May 2020

"Alright lads, play nice like I've taught you, we're linking up with a squad from Banshee Company for this one," Price holds his hands up not in defeat but to silence the instant complaints forming; last time they worked with a PMC did not go down smoothly, and Graves got away scot-free, "I know. And I know you can manage, but we'll be glad of the help, trust me."

Trust does get him far, and none of them blames Price for the mess they ended up in. Nor for the one they're facing now. Each of them is with him, none more loyal than Ghost. 

His attention catches on the approaching group at the same time as the rest of the team's, Price’s—with his back to them—a second later.

"And here they are now. Treat them as if they're our own. Scratch that, treat them as if they’re our friends."

"Daddy's introducing the new step kids," Morova whispers as into his ear as he can get, and Ghost, as per usual, doesn't deign to reply with more than a grunt.

It's a group of five, like theirs, a somewhat short, certainly stout man their leader. Ghost barely notices him for the shorter—but much leaner—man following just a step behind him. Small, with long hair for anyone to grab hold off, and blind in one eye, Ghost sees when he gets closer.

These private groups will let anyone join. 

Price introduces them one by one, and Ghost nods to each of them.

Darragh nods back, head held as high as it'll go. Below Ghost's shoulder, he's sure, though keeps his distance.

He knows trouble when he sees it. Trouble's staring right back, one eye stormy blue, the other milky white, dead and looking straight through him.

۝

28 October 2024

Sunlight filters in through the latticed kitchen windows, the stained-glass casting colourful shapes over the wood of the kitchen table in the middle of the room, his knuckles green and orange and pink, tattooed with a distorted flower. Outside, Darragh mimes a throw to Clyde—and to Hettie, who remains uninterested in most of her surroundings—and Clyde shakes his head while laughing.

Ghost can't hear what they're talking about, but it wasn't all that interesting before Maud lured him inside with the promise of freshly brewed tea. Loose-leaf, she made a point of telling him, though Ghost isn't too picky. He has his preferences, but after close to twenty years as a soldier, he's used to taking what he can get, and that goes for more than only tea.

"I can see it in the way ye look at him," Maud pulls his gaze back inside and to her after the slight lull in their conversation, the lines around her eyes deeper on her smile, "I'd say to hold on tightly, but yer hands are firmly clasped. Dark times together, but a bright future, I bet. We can see, if ye want?"

Ghost blinks at her, trying to follow. She can't mean what he thinks she means. Fortune-telling or — he's not about to disrespect the woman in her own home, though.

"I'm not sure what you mean," he offers, resisting the urge to brush her off.

"Oh, I ken it's not real to ye, dear, there's no need to pretend for my sake," she chuckles softly, not the first time she's done so, but right now Ghost can almost see her younger self. Right here in this kitchen, painted green then, and no greys in her hair, her cheeks less full, face unlined. "But do indulge me? I read the leaves, like my mother taught me and her mother before her," she pauses, tilting her chin down as if sharing a secret, "and ye ken everyone here is sick of me by now."

Ghost snorts, looking down at the delicate china cup he has his fingers curled around, white but painted with lavender flowers, so tiny and yet so detailed he can't fathom a steady enough hand. And that's speaking as someone with plenty of experience.

"Of course. Is there anything I should…do?"

It's not often he gets to feel this bloody silly, and Ghost can't say he relishes the opportunity to do it now. He's also not enough of a tosser to refuse her, both of them warming to each other quickly over the past few days. It’s odd, on the surface and with their differences, but Maud took them in like family. As if Ghost knows anything about that. Even when he did, he didn’t. 

"Nothing at all, only drink yer tea. And dinnae swallow the leaves. Dinnae rush, either. They'll surely know," Maud…jokes, he thinks, but can't be sure of. What Ghost is sure of, is that she's counting on that and far too amused with herself. "If ye’ve a question, keep it in mind while drinking."

A question, Ghost doesn't repeat out loud. There are none he can think of, going along as promised. The future, but it's so broad he doesn't know where to start, or if he wants to know anything about it at all. In theory, if this were real. It's wide open, apart from the next few weeks, and for a man often searching for a breath of air and stars to look to, Ghost might prefer a more narrow road.

He drains the cup—without swallowing any of the leaves—and looks outside, to Darragh, the one thing he's sure of, before handing it over to Maud. 

Not that sure, Ghost isn't planning forever, with him or alone. He's not planning at all, not much past breakfast or some castle on the way. This week marks halfway, or close to it, resting up before they continue up and then down again to take a ferry over to Ireland. 

Maud hums, turning the cup so that the handle faces Ghost. Which he's sure is important, somehow, but letting her do this doesn't mean learning to do it for himself. He waits, sceptical but intrigued enough, willing to indulge her and his own curiosity. It has to be like horoscopes, where on the surface they may seem to say something specifically linked to real circumstances, but in reality are so broad that any meaning derived is nothing more than personal input. How that works with leaves —

"A great betrayal in yer past," Maud interrupts his thoughts, looking up from the teacup she cradles in her hands, "see here? It's on the left side," she tilts the cup to show him, and he frowns in question before Maud points to a squiggly shape, "a snake. Ye could see it as temptation, too, I suppose, for the more God-fearing among us."

Ghost clears his throat, amused and ignoring her first interpretation, choosing the second. "Darragh. They—and me, for a time—call him Snake. His eye, he wears a patch for work, like this character from an old film -"

"Like Snake Plissken," she chuckles, nodding, "aye, I ken him. Seeing as yer still together, I'd say temptation is right, then."

"I'd say so," he agrees readily, though mostly avoids thinking back to it. Their relationship didn't start with love or a crush or any other sappy feelings. Fucking was entirely separate from their non-existent friendship, until it wasn't. "What else can you tell?"

Maud doesn't answer him right away, but neither does she turn the teacup back to herself entirely, as if she's deciding whether to explain or not. Her hesitation makes Ghost wonder if, or how often, she thinks she sees something meaningful in the little clumps of wet leaves, and spins her subject some story. He may not believe in it himself, but he wants to hear whatever her truth is, not some fairy tale she'll make up for his convenience; it’s not him who believes. 

"Well, it's a bit hard to tell is all," she finally speaks as Ghost starts to lose interest, meeting his eyes before looking back down to the cup, "do ye see how on the left there's this shape of a mountain?" Ghost nods, but before he can comment that it's hardly the only one-or that clear—she points to the next. "There's another at present. And yet another in yer near future, but after that, there's nothing more. I don't mean for ye to fret, it doesn't mean what you might think."

He might, if he believed, but death isn't something he's afraid of regardless. Though it's not — it's complicated, but simple at the same time. Once it's done, it's done. Not even the manner matters, when it comes down to it. Ghost doesn't believe in God or an afterlife, hasn't since he was a kid. Still hoped that he was wrong then, childish dreams of a better place. 

Dead is dead. It's the people that stay who have to carry that weight.

"I'm not worried," he assures her, having no current plans of dying or being near death by dealing it himself, "what do mountains mean?"

"Many things. Struggle, a journey, reaching the peak of some great challenge. Forces of the earth, as in things will happen in a way that ye’ve no chance of changing. It could even be literal, we’ve plenty around," Maud smiles at him, rueful yet warm as if they've known each other for years, "just because the far future isn't written here, does not mean it wilnae happen. My interpretation is that whatever yer struggling with now and soon mean too much can change. But look at all this history. The mountain and the snake, aye, but also this, see?" Maud points out another shape, and Ghost squints along, craving a fag. "See how it's shaped like a lock? The circle with an open path, it symbolises moving into place. And ye did, years ago. Twice, from the looks of it."

He'd barely count once, but Ghost won't argue. One, she's their host, and has been an incredible one for the past few days. And two, she sounds utterly convinced. There's no harm in going along with it.

No harm, other than the slight tremble of her fingers, or her faster breath, her eyes darting briefly over his face. None of which Ghost would notice if he wasn't trained to, but here and on her, the signs are as obvious as a man with his back against the wall looking for an out or a weapon to grab. This isn't that, but Maud's tells are obvious enough.

She's scared.

"Quite enough," he says softly, though it looks like she has more to share, "thank you."

"Don't thank me, lad. This is — ah, I've never seen anything like it, have I? I don't mean the abrupt end, loads of reasons for that. I mean that, it's not new to me, no matter how worrying it may seem," Maud deflates slightly, but she also breathes easier, though she doesn't meet his eyes, her own still trained on the tea leaves. "I always say that nothing's set in stone. But this is all past. An entire life in these leaves…"

He should say something, something to make her relax more, but not about it being fake. Nor a joke about having the bloody cup aimed the wrong way around, tempting as it is to poke fun. There's a gravity in her that almost pulls him into believing. It's easy to see that Maud does. Not too difficult to accept that for what it is; arguing usually isn't in his list of duties, off or on them.

Analysing is another matter; danger, approach, consequences.

Ghost almost physically shakes himself out of it. Not only is he having tea with an otherwise lovely woman, none of those are his duties any more. Certainly not here and now, but nowhere else, either. Looking both ways before he crosses the street, picking out who's carrying a knife when he's out late, but no more than that.

Maud and her tea leaves are right. An entire life, all in the past.

"Nothing in the future?"

It's not real, he doesn't believe it means anything, but his sudden melancholy and her hint of fear have him ask anyway, willing to make peace with an answer that doesn't mean anything.

Maud shakes her head, meeting his eyes. "Not much, no. See here, plenty of small specks, but nothing formed, no — well, aside from this here, the mountain."

Meaning a journey, which they're on. Or anything else, according to her.

But if it means that he'll die soon… "Can you tell if it's just me? Do I take him with me?"

Outside, Darragh and Clyde talk indistinctly, the older man gesturing at the fruit trees and shaping his hand around invisible apples. Or tits, with the alleged size of them, but given the context he'll go with apples.

It's probably both. 'Apples as big as tits', he doesn't hear, but almost snorts at anyway, distracting himself from falling into a spiral of fear at the concept of losing Darragh, too. At the memories and guilt and resurfacing — no. Not here, not now. Not here.

Not now.

"I'm sorry, dear. It's too complicated for that, but there being an absence of leaves doesnae mean you die. It's just that the future isnae written clearly," Maud clearly used the same explanation before and Ghost doesn't buy a word of it, not with how shaken she still looks, the tremble in her hands when she set the cup back on its saucer.

It's not real, but Ghost's own thoughts have him more shaken than he'd like to be, too affected by something that's nothing more than an old parlour trick and way for women to entertain themselves in days past. What other people believe or don't is none of his concern, but Ghost sees no need for faith in magic and gods, believes only in his own hands and what they're capable of.

What they're not.

"I didnae mean to worry ye like this," Maud tries again, and Ghost takes a breath, shakes it off.

"You didn't. Just got to thinking, that's all. Told you that we're on our way to Ireland. Lot o' driving to do," Ghost lets his meaning hang in the air between them, and lightly taps the table before pushing his chair back. "Thank you, I'll keep an eye out for that mountain."

His joke lands, or Maud pretends it does, laughing softly as she stands up at the same time as he does.

"Aye, do that. Who knows where climbing it may lead," she replies cryptically and smiling, but at least the strange sense of fear hanging in the kitchen like mist—or toxic gas— dissipates quickly.

The memory of his unease and near slip into the past clings, but Ghost is used to ignoring that. Does it so well that most days he hardly notices at all. Almost a year now. 

These things happen.

And that’s as far as he allows himself to think about it. One more step in that direction will have the ice crack under his feet before he takes a sudden plunge, water in his lungs and freezing his veins. Pulled under by his own weakness.

"I'm stepping out for a smoke," he nods to Maud, needing air, and needing to rescue Darragh, too.

By the looks of it, he's had his fill of whatever Clyde is telling him about by now, casting looks back to the house and looking for a way out without being too rude about it. Perfect timing and just the distraction Ghost needs.

"Gods, yes, go rescue him. I'm sure Clyde's talking his heid off," Maud chuckles as she waves him to the door, "yer out for supper tonight again, that right?"

"That's the plan, though I'm tempted to stay for your cooking," he means it, but tonight's excursion—as Darragh called it, thinking he's cute—does win out. Marginally.

He steps outside at Maud's chuckled "flatterer", and lights a fag on his way over to the men in the garden, where Darragh already shoots him a grateful smile. Pretty isn't really a word he'd use to describe him, but he looks it here, framed by all the fading greens, vibrant yellows, the orange and red of the setting sun on longer and brighter days. 

They're well into autumn now, but last spring's growth holds on, as if saying 'just a little longer, don't make me leave before I must’. Soon enough a strong wind will take them, and if not, there's always time that will. The world keeps turning. Some lesson there, but Ghost doesn't need to hear it again, and he brushes a stray lock of hair off Darragh's cheek when he reaches him.

The look it earns him would have Ghost pull him in close if they were in private, but he only offers Darragh his cigarette in another greeting, turning to Clyde instead.

"Think I'll steal him away from you, if you don't mind," Ghost's voice doesn't sound quite like himself yet, but not all that off, either. He's fine, and was fine, and reinforcing that to himself helps it be almost true. "Should probably get underway."

"Aye, aye, I've been going on for quite long enough," Clyde nods, though he looks like he could go on for much longer — a good time to interrupt, in any case, as much as Darragh can talk someone's ear off, too. "Say, yer a big braw laddie, could ye give me a hand one of these days? Wi' it being Samhain soon, I've all this wood for the bonfire…" 

He trails off, faded eyes glinting with mirth; Ghost doubts he's incapable of handling it on his own, but nods his agreement.

"We'll be up early tomorrow," Darragh adds, "big celebrations, then?"

Samhain, that's Halloween. Ghost doesn't question why they're calling it that, only stealing his fag back from Darragh's fingers after he takes a drag.

"Aye, though not as big as used to be. Bonfire down at the park, by the river, ye see," Darragh hums as if he does see, but Ghost does not. Clyde continues, nodding mostly to himself, "another near the cairns, third should still be held at Craig Phadrig. If anyone's going up the mountain, ye might be able to see it from there. And of course, the largest by far, up at Culloden. Yer wisest to go see tha' one, being tourists an' all."

He laughs, then waves them off. "Go on now, I'll keep ye for another hour if ye let me. Ask Maud to get started on supper when you pass through, would ye?"

They don't need to, since she already has pots on the stove and a knife in hand, but say bye on their way to the front door, where they put their shoes and jackets on before heading out. It's not late, but the sun is on its way down already, though its light is stronger than it has been in days.

Ghost squints in it when they turn the corner of their little street, on a hill they've gone down now, reaching the river in a moment.

"We should go to one of those bonfires," he continues as if there was no break in the conversation, though he doesn't care much for Halloween. Or any other holiday, for that matter.

"Taking an interest in my culture, are you?" Darragh teases, lighting another cigarette for the walk, passing it back and forth like they often do. "But you read my mind. Though, no offence to old man Clyde or the battle, I was thinking the one at the cairns…heard some locals talking yesterday."

"Oh?"

Ghost takes a drag before giving the cigarette back, glancing at his partner out of the corner of his eye. He looks good—he often does, and even when he doesn't, Ghost always likes the sight of him—with the breeze stirring his hair where it's not in his bun, beard getting long and a little unruly. These days, Ghost usually makes sure to walk on his left side so they can easily make eye contact. No need to serve as his other eye now, making sure he doesn't have a blind spot.

He adapted well, but Ghost didn't know him before it happened. Fairly small and half blind, mercenary work—private army, Ghost corrects himself, scolded enough for a lifetime—suited him much better than the SAS or its Irish equivalent would have.

Better pay, too. He's considering it himself, has a spot waiting whenever he says the word, but it's not a decision he's ready to make. Not yet, though there's little else on the horizon. He won't crawl back, but most importantly, there's nothing to crawl back to. Not now, no matter that he does still care about the team. Leaving was both the easiest and hardest thing he's ever done.

Darragh nudges him when he passes him the cigarette again. "You didn't hear any of that, did you?"

"Not a word. Lost in thought, sorry," Ghost takes another drag before giving it back, their fingers brushing. His are warm, Darragh's cold in the crisp autumn air, and he glances around before taking his other hand. "Tell me again."

"The short version," he chuckles, interlacing their fingers as they walk down the riverside path, unhurried though they might be late for the tasting at a local brewery they're heading to, "is that I read those are similar to some I saw in Ireland. Been meaning to visit them anyway, Samhain seems as good a time as any, no? Supposed to bring an offering, food or herbs, flowers, stones. Doesn't matter much. I hope they're keeping tradition, mostly. Or something similar, I mean. Sight to see, believe me."

"This is the short version?" Ghost teases, idly rubbing Darragh's thumb with his own, still a bit unmoored from earlier but settling. Frustrated with himself for needing to.

"Shut up," Darragh snorts, bumping into him—to no effect at all, strong as he is for his size—and halting them under a bowed willow still clinging to its leaves, "unless you want the full and unabridged story…that can be arranged, you know? No problem for me, that. I guess I just gotta decide where to start, and personal versus—"

Ghost cuts him off with a kiss, pressed to the corner of his mouth before Darragh's brain catches up. They slot together, brief but heated, turning into each other like this might lead somewhere. Ghost has one hand on the side of Darragh's neck—just as he likes it, the tease of his thumb on his throat, nails scratching in promise, feeling his pulse pick up in response—and Darragh drops their cigarette to slip his own hand under Ghost's jacket. And his hoodie, then his tshirt, too. No higher than his hip, but finding an earlier bruise blindly, and they step apart panting lightly.

"Aye. That works. Fuck, got me half hard just like that, Si," Darragh breathes out, glancing down at himself to see if it's obvious.

"Keep it in your trousers for now," Ghost warns with a chuckle, no less affected but a little more in control, "food and pints first. Get you off after."

"Oh, 'get me off', is it? Nothing in it for you at all," he's complaining just to complain, just to get another kiss, and Ghost gives in all too freely, groaning softly when Darragh presses himself into his thigh, snaking his hand down between them to cup Ghost's own growing erection. "Uninterested, are we?"

"Not in the slightest…" Ghost murmurs back, threatening to give in fully, no matter that they're in public — not helping, that. "Tempting me like this…know your tricks, sweetheart."

That earns him an actual bloody giggle, and Darragh pulls away. As he thought. Not that they never do anything in public, or at inopportune times, but with a night like this planned, there's no way that Darragh wouldn't dart out of his grasp the second he means to take it further. 

Likes a bit of a chase, which works well for Ghost, liking a bit of a hunt himself. 

Darragh grins wide, sticking his tongue out between his teeth for some more teasing, but he hooks their pinkies together to pull Ghost along. 

"Fine, fine. To be continued. Thoroughly.”

Chapter Text

۝

Chapter Two

15 November 2019

"Good to see you again, Simon. Take a seat."

Ghost does, reluctant at Price's tone, his demeanour, the thick cigar smoke in the air.

"Best get it out quickly, sir," he nods, worried in a way he's usually not, and less when talking to Price. "Not used to you pulling me off an active op."

Drawing attention to that might not do him any favours if this is a reprimand, though he can't think of a reason it would be. He's not used to Price acting like this. All his gravitas—and grumpiness—aside, catching up is usually fairly casual, after an op or not. Pints, or at least not with the air of arranging another funeral.

It's been years, but that's not a conversation he'll forget any time soon.

Price sighs, moustache twitching on a wry smile, and he sits down on the other side of his desk, no longer overlooking the base but not quite meeting Ghost's eyes, either.

"You're aware of that mess last month," he starts, not asking since Ghost does know. In broad lines, but more than he should. "It's not done," that's something else Ghost already knows, and he nods but doesn't otherwise interrupt. "I'm forming a task force, under Kate's…oversight, we'll say, but there won't be much of it. I've got a few names in mind, one of them the lad I had with me there, poached him from his own team."

Ghost waits as Price squints at him, a mixture of apprehension and something just left of excitement setting in his stomach. It's easy to see where this is going, and why this weighs more than it would if it weren't for their past.

But Price finally pulls the trigger instead of only holding him in his crosshair, clearing his throat and wringing his hands. "I want you with me. No more out alone, no more months away. Your skills, my command. Now, I'm asking, not ordering. We'll be operating in the margins, no bureaucracy, no one to answer to but ourselves. Small group, four to six. What do you say?"

۝

31 October 2024

It's not just Darragh who takes this more seriously than Ghost is used to — aside from kids eager to dress up and gorge themselves on candy. Halloween wasn't as much of a thing in Ghost's youth, seemingly getting more popular with American influence, and the costumes are often a far cry from witches and zombies, turning to superheroes and pop stars instead. 

Maybe he's just getting old.

In any case, costumes don't seem to be on the agenda for tonight. Or tomorrow, as he didn’t learn until yesterday; tonight is only the start. Something about Samhain originating when days started and ended at sundown, not at dawn or midnight. It makes little sense to Ghost, but he's not telling at least two countries their traditions are dumb. Nor does he care all that much. It's mostly the leftover urge to have clear intel and be punctual, though he supposes that if it did matter—which it does not—he has everything he needs to know.

They're still in bed, after spending yesterday at Loch Ness and in the surrounding area, plans changed at least three times before the weather cooperated enough. The lake was pretty, monster within or not, but Ghost liked touring the nearby castles more. Mostly ruins, though some are well-kept and filled with plaques about local history. It's interesting, though history has never really been his thing; even back in school it was a subject he paid little mind to. He shoves old memories away, beatings and hooked pinkies in the back of class, more beatings for that. 

Old memories, and wounds that healed a long time ago.

He thought, back then but not then, that it'd hit him later on, maybe. The others did, they broke him. But he felt nothing at his father's death. Not even relief. Good bloody riddance, but it hardly mattered without his mum and Tommy. He doesn't think about them often, but more recently. 

No wonder, but Ghost pushes Price away, too.

A year, in twenty-two days.

They'll be in Ireland by then, or gone again; no solid date in mind, no obligations, no plan other than taking their time to get there. He looks over at Darragh, sprawled out on his stomach, dirty blond hair in a messy halo around his head, sleeping soundly with his face in the pillow. Ghost knows what he's thinking, considering, where the journey might lead. He's not sure yet of what he'll say. It feels right, though, somewhat. 

Not fully, but Ghost can't imagine feeling like this about anyone else.

They've been together a while, two years is a long time. But they've only been together full-time for three months. And Ghost can admit that it hasn't been the best of times, that he's been dealing with shite and not dealing at all, pretending everything is fine. It hasn't put a strain on them like he would've thought. Like he was afraid of. They work like they always have, except now they get to wake up together each day and have breakfast. It's mundane, but not to him, not for them, not yet.

Ghost can, somehow and against all odds, picture doing it for many, many years to come. Unsure about making the effort to live as he still is. Less with him. 

He strokes his knuckles down Darragh's spine, his bare skin less scarred than Ghost’s own, and smiles at the goosebumps rising in his wake. The small, shivered sigh Darragh breathes into his pillow, and the slightest tilt of his hips. They like pretending, sometimes, that Ghost has to earn it—or even force him, all a game—but it's just as nice to see him respond like this. It's not in doubt, how much he loves him back, but small moments like this warm Ghost's cold heart.

They're not good people, but they're good to each other.

"Better keep going for interrupting a dream like that," Darragh murmurs, turning his head to crack his good eye open a sliver, and shut an instant later when Ghost flattens his palm to his back, "tha's it…wouldn't mind a kiss or two, either."

"Demanding," Ghost comments despite leaning in to press the requested kiss to his shoulder, and the next to his nape after brushing his hair aside, "didn't mean to wake you. Wouldn't mind spending all day in bed."

He means it more than just for fucking, though he's not that tired. It's a nice bed, they're naked under a thick comforter, rain patters softly on the windows, and sleep hasn't quite loosened its grasp. Not to mention Darragh, making almost no noise at all but pressing closer like a purring cat — and just as small, Ghost almost snorts as he cuddles under his arm, nuzzling closer and jabbing him with his knees and elbows until he settles down again.

Ghost wouldn't call himself happy, but he's more than content. Far more.

"Smell good," Darragh presses impossibly closer, nose to his skin, fingers curling through his chest hair, cock letting Ghost know just how much he enjoys it, "fuckin' rank…but in the good way. Gave you a right workout."

Too smug, but Ghost hums low in his throat. "That way around. Sure. Anything else I missed last night?"

Or this morning, technically. Most of the buildup wasn't here, but the finale was. Just not in bed, trying to be considerate and avoid too much creaking, and their size difference can hinder as much as it can help.

Ghost remembers their first time like yesterday — the first time they fucked properly, well into getting off together by then, both more than aware and an unspoken agreement that they needed more than a few stolen moments to work out the tension between them. It was clumsy, and strangely meaningful without meaning for it to be. It was the shift of being something convenient to choosing each other, despite even before then choosing often enough. Looking forward to another team-up or just a brush of being on the same base, in the same area. Texting like — Ghost bites his lip, closer to blushing than he'd like to admit for remembering the butterflies, how silly he felt.

They weren't all that soft and sweet—and still aren't, most of the time—but he sure as hell craved more and more like indulging in a treat. Darragh made no show about hiding that he felt the same way, though he certainly didn't make it easy, either. Bit of cat and mouse, riling each other up, bated breath for the pounce.

"So loud," Darragh interrupts his thoughts, like he often does at both the right and the wrong time, "unless you're thinking about breakfast, you should be payin' attention to me."

Ghost shakes him with his snort, and tugs him away when Darragh noses to his armpit, guiding him to lie on top of him instead.

"Was just thinking about us, before. When you still knew how to play hard to get," he teases again, as if Darragh didn't give him a nice attempt a few days ago — one that admittedly went a bit far, drunk and turned on beyond belief after a night of foreplay in the brewery, ending with bruises and scrapes and many soothing kisses. "How you wrapped me around your finger, always teasing…" Ghost adjusts them a little, Darragh solid on top of him, tucked under his chin and pretending he doesn't want to rub his stiff cock harder against him. "First time we fucked, way you came in less than five minutes."

Darragh makes a small but distinctly affronted noise back, hitching his hips no more than twice at the memory, mouthing at Ghost's neck in favour of saying anything, and shivering hard when Ghost gathers his hair into his fist. He doesn't pull it, but the threat—promise—is there. It's more than enough to have his cock twitch, leaking so easily for him.

"Nothing changed much," Ghost goes on, his own cock throbbing against Darragh's thigh, "easy little thing."

Darragh whines loudly, getting off on this as much as Ghost is, despite being far from fond of the endless remarks on his height he endures. He's not weak, not close, though no match for Ghost at all. And only based on pure strength, because he's skilled, fights dirty. Fingers in eyes and teeth in flesh if he needs to. They’ve seen some shite together. 

Way to put a damper on things.

Ghost’s cock disagrees, distracted enough for both of them and reminding him that Darragh might not need a lot of prep at the same time as Darragh bites into his neck. Sharp and mean, soothed by licks and kisses before he does it again, writhing in Ghost's arms and moaning against his skin.

"Gonna pump you full again," Ghost warns him, twisting the hair in his fist tighter and slipping a knuckle into Darragh’s hole to test the fit.

"You fucking better," he groans, still nipping at his neck like a teething kitten, "if you keep talking like that you’ll get a repeat performance."

Ghost snorts, sliding out to grope his ass, sure it's true despite working him over last night — not despite, because of it. Nothing like a good orgasm to make him crave another, no fight left in him, arousal only stronger with the remnant of last night's to work him up again. Letting Ghost do all the work, but he can't say he minds that. At all.

Loose-limbed and pliant for him, warm and fitted like they're made for each other, like this.

He positions Darragh a little better by guiding him to spread his legs, feeling how wet he's getting between their sleep-hot bodies, and grumbles when Darragh continues to be dead weight. Not quite, mouthing at his throat and clavicle, hitching his hips to rub off.

"Bloody pillow princess," Ghost huffs, but grins at the expected throb of Darragh's erection, the sharp intake of breath, and the harder press of his hips. "That get you off, sweetheart?"

No need to ask, but worth it for how Darragh groans into his neck, biting sharply again, and doubtlessly flushed pink. Normally he'd get pissed with him for it, all defiant, but Ghost knows when to use it and when not. Just the right amount of bristled.

"Like it when I'm in charge, don't you…always making me work for it when all you want is to lie back and take it," he goes on, slipping his fingers back into Darragh's crease to tease and test if he's slick enough for two.

Ghost's cock jumps hard the second he brushes Darragh's hole again, fluttering under his touch and leaking last night's loads back out. He takes Ghost's full finger so easily that he's tempted to tease about how loose he is, made to be stuffed, but Darragh cuts him off.

"Babe, please," he whines softly, tilting his hips for more, his breath hot and his heart beating faster already, same as Ghost's, filled with anticipation.

He doesn't give him a second finger before lining his cock up, and they groan in unison when Ghost slides into him. Slowly, but not all that carefully; he knows Darragh's body, his limits, what he likes, and that he'll let Ghost know the second he's wrong about any of it. He grabs Darragh's narrow hips when he bottoms out, forcing him to stop squirming on his cock before he blows his load too fast, but that doesn't stop Darragh from clenching down rhythmically or from gnawing on Ghost's neck, rubbing his bearded face into his skin like a cat marking its territory.

"Christ, still tight on me," Ghost groans, trying to collect himself — not helping by saying it out loud, nor the needy moan it earns him, or the shudder rolling through Darragh's body. "Gonna keep it in all day, get you loose and sloppy, use you when I want, how's that sound?"

"Fuck…fuck, you better start fucking me soon, Jesus bloody Christ. Thought I was the talker between the two of us," Darragh bites him again for emphasis, hard enough he might break skin, and it works just as intended.

Ghost gives in with a growl he can't manage to keep quiet, shifting his hands to Darragh's ass for leverage as he thrusts up roughly. He's small there, too, globes fitting nearly entirely in Ghost's hands, supple and thoroughly bruised by prior kneading, just as the pounding of Ghost's hips. They can't go as hard in this position, but Ghost fucks into him from below with sharp snaps, drilling his cock deep into Darragh's milking hole.

It's no time at all before his bites turn into only the slide of wet lips on Ghost's skin, gasped moans letting him know how close Darragh is to spilling between their bodies. He's near quivering with it, holding on tightly and fucking himself back on Ghost's cock, but still flat on top of him instead of sitting up to ride him. Ghost can barely hang on himself, trying to keep quiet for the sake of their hosts and the other guest staying here, but having little regard for trying to make Darragh come — he likes that, sometimes, feeling used and abused.

Fuck, Ghost can't deny how into that he is, too. It's far from always like this, but there's a reason they work together this well, romance aside. Clocked each other from day one. Something animal, primal, and no amount of telling himself to be a professional stopped them from the frantic way that night ended. Twice more the next day before they got their minds back, and ages before they got serious, but the attraction never lessened.

"Useless little thing, bouncing on my cock like that," he grunts out, planting his feet to thrust deeper, angle his cock just right — he slaps Darragh's ass hard before gripping him tight again, cursing under his breath.

Darragh isn't quiet, his moans going high and cut off by sweet small gasps, all breathy and pressed into Ghost's skin to muffle himself. He barely even tenses when Ghost can't resist smacking him again, sharp and hard, and goes entirely loose a moment later, everywhere but his pulsing hole, hot cum spurting between them, fucked out of him with each rough thrust. Rougher for a few more frantic ones before Ghost pumps inside, filling him with another load like they're newlyweds trying to get bloody pregnant.

He groans softly, grinding in through the aftershocks and groping Darragh's ass hard enough to make him whimper and try to twitch away — there's nowhere to go, and he makes his complaint heard. Unconvincingly, cursing interspersed with small kisses, and Ghost lets go to rub him instead, first his abused ass, and stroking his back when Darragh sighs and melts back into him.

"Alright?"

Ghost's voice cracks from how he tried not to use it too much, and he shakes Darragh with his soft laugh at himself, trying to look down and meet his eyes.

"Christ, yeah. Not a bad way to wake up, dream be damned," he answers while leaning up, then inches up a bit further so they can kiss.

Ghost doesn't quite slip out of him yet, but being less plugged means that more than a bit of his cum does. He groans into their kiss, both of them too fucked out to give a shit about morning breath — they've tasted worse, in general and on each other's lips. It's sweet, especially compared to how Ghost used him, his words. Not untrue, but only talk. It wasn't always easy to admit, or face up to, how much he loves him. But it has been for a while, no matter that it was hard to measure when they made do with the few and far between.

They break apart at creaking floorboards and padded steps, eyes locked and trying not to laugh; it's most likely Maud, since Clyde left early this morning and the only other guest hasn't shown herself more than once. She seemed shy to Ghost, but it was mostly down to timing, with her off exploring when they were home and vice versa. But they had dinner together with their hosts one night, and judging by the heft behind those footsteps, it's not her.

All that effort to remain—or be, since despite trying they most definitely failed—quiet is for nothing a second later, when Maud's warm and accented voice carries through the door.

"I take it yer all finished up in there," she pauses, and Ghost is pretty sure she's holding off a chuckle of her own, "don't mind me if yer not. But I thought ye might like some breakfast, and I could use some taste testers for this pie…"

It's not until now that Ghost smells it, fragrant apple and cinnamon drifting up from downstairs, mixing with the petrichor from outside through their drafty window to make him homesick for something he hasn't actually experienced before. It does something strange to him, if not altogether bad, and with sudden clarity he can see parts of a shared life, not always this, but just like this. Warm. Home. It's terrifying, and Darragh answers her when Ghost's words stick in his throat.

"That sounds perfect, we'll be down in a minute," he pauses too, and adds, "after a shower, though."

"Dinnae fash, it needs a bit of cooling," Maud chuckles, and her steps recede down the hall to the stairs, seemingly entirely unbothered by what she overheard — and God knows what exactly that was.

Darragh drops his head down onto Ghost's chest, shaking with laughter, and Ghost rolls them onto their sides while slipping his cock out of him, not nearly as mortified as he should be. They stay pressed close like that for a moment before flopping onto their backs, basking in the rush of cool air, gearing up to get up.

It's their last day here, though Maud made it clear they're welcome at the same insanely cheap rate for as long as they like, and they've considered it strongly. The whole trip has been good so far, if not without its hiccups and rough moments, but this week has been a highlight. And with nothing solid planned out, it wouldn't hurt to tack a few days on to their stay, but they can talk about it after breakfast.

A shower first.

Once they're clean and dressed, and presentable if slightly ashamed, they join Maud in her large kitchen. No sun to cast colours and images over the table though the stained-glass today, but outside's dreary grey only emphasizes the cosiness inside, candles lit instead of lamps for extra light.

"Och, dinnae make those faces," she greets them, tutting and turning around to put the kettle on, "ye've been here a week, 'tis hardly the first time anyone's heard ye. Young love, I say," she glances over her shoulder, mirth clear in the brief look, "even if yer not that young. Besides, not as if we're unused to hearing it, ye ken. House as old as this, and operating it as long as we have. Better here than out there giving someone an eyeful."

She says the latter part as someone all too aware, either from experience or having them pegged, but also distinctly maternal. It could read as overbearing, but doesn't, not really. Ghost isn't sure how to manage it, though. He's used to being cold, brushing things off when they do manage to touch something inside him, bloody rare as it is, aside from Darragh — and the one person he cannot be thinking about. Not now. He's doing well.

He's been doing well, all things considered. He's been doing well, even if he doesn't deserve to be.

"Still, we're guests," Ghost manages, pulling out a chair, "and you've been a wonderful host. We'll be out of your hair shortly."

"I told ye, yer welcome as long as ye like. Honestly, it's been a while since we had a couple like the two of ye," Maud turns, leaning against the counter to convey that she means it, her face kind as ever but serious, and it is all a bit much, it is. But Ghost appreciates it, too. “Ye could stay until Bonfire Night. Aye, it’s more fire after tonight, but most of the city celebrates that one. Candy apples at the fairground, sparkles and fireworks. What do ye say?”

Ghost nods noncommittally, glancing at Darragh as he sits down beside him, his damp hair loose and curling on the ends — Ghost wouldn't call him traditionally handsome, but it's him, his lithe form, the cleverness in his eye, his lips and how his mouth moves, accent clear even without hearing his voice, all of him. He looks good, because that's the man he loves. Against all odds, when he was sure that he was incapable of it.

Darragh nudges into him, biting his lip on a smile before he steals a quick kiss. Somewhat accepted or not, it's something they do mostly keep to themselves. Especially before, even if fraternisation wasn't an issue and Price would never report them if it was. He knew, though, and it wasn't all that long before the whole team did. Not through Price, of course. He wouldn't, and didn't mention it—publicly—once before everyone found out. 

Meaningful looks not withstanding.

"We were just talking about that — well, yesterday, really," Darragh nods, but shrugs one shoulder when he continues, "haven't decided yet, though. Not that it hasn't been lovely stayin' here, mind. Just have a long way to go before home, and…"

He trails off without finishing his sentence, but his meaning is clear to Ghost if not to Maud. It's been hanging over them like thick clouds waiting to erupt, the date and what it means. Things won't be all that bad; it's been a year. But Ghost feels the weight just as much. The threat of really breaking, staying stuck.

He doubts it, but it looms. Like a ghost in the corner of his eye, gone when he turns to face it. Him. And his own guilt.

"We could do a day, two," Ghost suggests as the kettle reaches a boil and clicks off, "spend Samhain here instead of on the road."

He's not sure about what other celebrations take place tomorrow after tonight's bonfires and feasts—pot lucks, really, though they're not going to the same one as Maud and Clyde here in the city—but Darragh has shown plenty of interest in the day itself. No harm in staying to enjoy it.

"Alright, settled then. We'll stay, leave on Wednesday instead," Darragh agrees, excited and drumming his fingers on the table.

Their next main stop is Thurso, up further north and right on the edge of the country, much like Inverness is here. Only about a three-hour drive, but they'll do plenty of sightseeing on the way. And more all the way back down and into Ireland, where they'll stay for a while. Not forever, Darragh has work and Ghost might join him, but they could stretch it to the new year.

Maud brings three steaming cups of tea and three slices of pie to the table on a serving tray, looking very pleased to have them for another day.

"There ye go, and dinnae spare my feelings on the pie. I've changed the recipe, ye ken, something special for tonight, but I'm just not sure if it works. Might be too much, no need to go messing with tradition."

She looks like she could go on, but stops herself with a smile, sitting down opposite them. Ghost notes the loose-leaf tea again, and her noting that he did, but she doesn't ask either of them to keep a question in mind for a reading. A good thing, though he could decline. The reading from a few days ago has mostly slipped his mind, but strangely stuck to him at the same time. Journeys and no grander plan, both fitting enough and nothing to concern him, and yet. Nothing to blame it on except himself; Ghost doesn't believe in any of it — in anything at all. Much more worrying, and most importantly, real warnings or threats don't affect him beyond taking them into account for further action. He'd hardly make for a good soldier if he was always this easily shaken.

Not that he is one now. Impossible to forget, and tough to adjust to.

He's aware that Darragh and Maud have been talking among themselves, and pleasantly from their tone, but he has no idea what he missed.

"—upstairs, she'll surely be there. Used to live around these parts, ye ken. I knew her when she was alive. They kept the old faith more than any other from here, but they were far from alone in it. I practice myself, of course, some," Maud lowers her voice, though it's unnecessary as far as Ghost knows, "they've always been an uncanny pair, though, her ma and the lass. Not in a bad way, nice people. Just a bit odd."

Far be it for him—of all people—to judge, but Ghost has to agree from what little he's seen of their upstairs neighbour. Mostly put it down to her apparent shyness, and it's also none of his business, so he minded his own.

"She's not here to help taste test?" Darragh asks, for lack of much else to say. "We've only met her a few times, she's often out."

"Aye, just like now. Left at dawn, she did, but I'm sure she'll turn up before sunset."

Which is early now, and earlier with Daylight Savings ending last weekend. Darragh beats him to the punch, pulling his phone out to make sure.

"That's around four thirty, right? Did you know," he turns to Ghost, fork in his other hand and forgotten for anything but pointing with, "some neolithic tombs are oriented to align with dawn on Samhain? Beltane, too."

"Aye," Maud nods, while Ghost takes a sip of his tea, not uninterested but out of his depth; he knows little about history, let alone things from that long ago, "the veil's thinnest on those dates. Our ancestors believed it was the best time to be in contact with their dead," she says 'our' like they're one and the same, hers and Darragh's, but Ghost guesses that going back that far, they are. "It's not all kind spirits, though, is it? The fires aren't to warm bones, and neither were the sacrifices."

"Sacrifices?" Ghost interjects, raising an eyebrow. 

He hasn't heard that part of it before.

"Oh, aye. Not human, mind—though there was a time with some Vikings here and such, they sure liked a bit of violence—just livestock, most often sheep and chickens…none o' that now, of course," Maud tells it all as casual as can be, though it’s clear how involved in it all she really is.

It definitely paints a picture, people practising the same or similar customs for thousands of years, influenced through time and culture changes but still present here today. There's a sense of wonder there, and separation too. Go back far enough, and every human is connected the same. But here it's all the more obvious how far removed Ghost is. He never cared to know much about his family or heritage, though distantly there's Irish blood in him, too. Scandinavian from his mum's side, even further back. But no customs, no traditions, even religion wasn't much of a thing when he grew up, not in his family, actively.

Ghost doesn't feel like he's missing out or excluded, it's just the perspective that has him contemplating his own history. He doesn't have ties to anywhere, let alone a place like this. His home town is the closest thing, but a shoddy flat with peeling paint can't be called meaningful. No longer a grave to lie in, there or elsewhere. 

He’d prefer cremation anyway. 

"Just good food to share," Darragh pulls him from his thoughts, though all three of them seemed lost in their own for a moment, "pie smells delicious, ma'am."

Maud chuckles, motioning for them to dig in. She picks her own fork up, too, but waits for them to try their first bite. Ghost can't say much on overall quality compared to others with how few times he eats pie at all, but this one is spectacular. Deeply spiced, offset by the fresh, tangy apple slices, and warming even more with the slight taste of rum she must've put in.

They voice their appreciation while chewing, savouring the bite as if there's not a whole slice waiting on their plate. If this is meant to be an offering, whoever it's made out to should be well satisfied and grant whatever Maud wishes for.

"It's incredible," Ghost finally says, nodding to her as she takes a bite herself, "if I knew how to bake, I'd ask for the recipe."

"I'm askin' anyway," Darragh adds from beside him, on his second bite and talking with his mouth full, "my da, he's a wizard with pie, but I still haven't tasted anything like this before. Can't say it'll be made with love, though. That man sees red when he's in the kitchen."

Ghost snorts, easily able to picture it despite not having met him. Yet. A photo here and there is enough, and Darragh is the spitting image of him — and just as ill-tempered when he's cooking.

"As long as there's emotion in it," Maud hums again, like sharing more ancient wisdom or archaic customs, "I'll write it up for you before ye leave. Just be warned that I'll know if he has something bad to say about it."

She's joking, but Ghost wouldn't take the chance, just to be sure.

"I'll pass it on," Darragh laughs, and the conversation shifts to their plans today.

Which, as it turns out, they don't have much of. Getting up this late means there's not a lot of time between now and tonight's festivities, at least not for the excursion they had planned. Instead, they'll stay in the city, wander and explore some more, help Maud and Clyde prepare, and make sure to be underway to the cairns before sunset. 

According to Maud, it won't be too crowded and alcohol is more appreciated than food there — though she'll pack them a loaf cake, since she's baking anyway.

۝

Darragh's excitement rubbed off on him by the time they return from exploring and say their goodbyes at the house. Ghost isn't sure what to expect past a bonfire and older-skewing crowd gathering to get buzzed and tell stories about the past in sometimes nearly indecipherable accents, or in Scottish Gaelic altogether, but there's something in the air even still at the house. 

Believing or not, it's easy to get swept up in the feeling of mystery and ritual. All bollocks, including the unfamiliar ease of fitting in. Being welcomed, outsider as he is. Not just here, but among people. 

Maybe the veil is thin, allowing him to blend in. 

The rain stopped somewhere around noon, and now that the sun is out the grey-brown-blue city shines with puddles and clinging drops, sparkling in the grass while sun rays illuminate all the shades of fall leaves. Almost like the stained-glass of Maud and Clyde's windows, Ghost thinks to himself while he pulls out of the driveway and onto the road, setting off for the short drive out of town.

It's an autumn like any other, but it's not. And for almost a year, even when everything was the same as it's always been, things are irrevocably different. It's the job. Ghost knew just as well as Price did that there was a chance of things ending up like this.

He just didn't know it'd be his fault.

They kept one of the two bottles of mead they bought in town for themselves, the other traded for a plate of hot food, the cake in turn traded for half a bottle of rum — after keeping two slices for dessert. Maud was right; it's not too crowded here, but it's not as casual as Ghost assumed, either.

No silly costumes, no vampires and fairies, but a few people did dress up. Folkloric, not all of them the same but in the same theme. It feels as if they're all here to share something, something Ghost certainly has no part of, yet is included in, anyway. Darragh doesn't quite belong either, and he's a far cry from a pagan like some—or perhaps all—of the people here, but he's been telling Ghost more pieces of history, of ancient people, of druids, of the small ways the past is incorporated into the present. While Scottish and Irish customs may not be the same, there’s just enough overlap and just enough difference to have Darragh excited and sharing all the things he knows. 

It's a side of him Ghost hasn't seen much until they started this trip, but even then it was mostly just to look at cool places and spend time together without being cooped up in a flat. A way to know each other better before meeting his family, and a distraction, too. 

"If I didn't know what those hands are capable of, I'd say you could get a job as history professor," he remarks after another anecdote, his accent thick to his own ears; far from sober, though not utterly pissed either.

Darragh takes a drag of his fag, flames dancing over his face from the bonfire they're sitting by, cross-legged and fairly uncomfortable. It's one of two, both in the outer two burial cairns, circles of low stones with open centres, standing stones spread out like sun rays around them.  

"I'll show you what these hands are capable of," he replies with a grin, leaning in for a kiss Ghost grants him easily, warm and soft and fucking gone on him, "I could be some Indiana Jones type, for sure. Shooting people, stealing artefacts. Let you be my sidekick."

"Does he have a sidekick?" Ghost deadpans, but genuinely has no idea, though he's sure he saw at least one of those movies, and likely more than once.

Hardly what he's focused on right now, as they kiss again and again, and someone whistles at their open antics. They break apart, grinning shamelessly, and whoever it was speaks loud enough to be heard, just not understood. Other than his own grin, only teasing instead of being hateful. They can defend themselves with ease, Ghost obviously, Darragh somewhat deceptively—if anyone is dumb enough to only look at his size—but everyone is here for a good time.

It certainly has been. The group that came dressed up led the earlier festivities, lighting the bonfires and chanting something in a language Ghost didn't recognise as they weaved around the standing stones, men and women separate at first before half exchanged places in a careful and practised choreography. The woman from the guest house was among them, and Ghost struggles to recall her name despite making small talk earlier.

Nora. Her eyes stuck with Ghost, deep brown and almond shaped. It may be—it is—prejudiced, but she doesn't look like someone he'd expect a druid to look like. Admittedly, it's also not something he's thought about before. If he did, he wouldn't have assumed people still were, or pretended to be, so it makes sense they're nothing like the image of robed figures living in the forest. None of the others look that way, either. 

Maybe they’re not druids at all, and Darragh’s full of shite. 

Ghost recognised one or two, despite the size of the city and how many people live in it; one he's fairly sure works at the closest Tesco, the other a neighbour from up the street. Three, counting Nora. Currently, he's not sure of much but the warmth of Darragh's hand on his thigh, the lure of his hair for grabbing, and the heat of the fire embracing them both.

In the city, people are likely attending normal Halloween parties, kids going out for trick or treating, plastic pumpkins filled with candy in the still-rising popularity of American customs, but here everything feels as old as the stones they're sitting on. People move freely between the bonfires and cairns, but the one in the middle—high-walled but open through a tight passage, facing the coming sunrise according to Darragh and Nora, who talked like old friends earlier—is untouched and left out of the festivities aside from the grave candles intermittently placed around it. 

If there are any other newcomers besides the two of them, they take heed as well.

No need, realistically, none but being respectful of whatever the customs are. And of the site, standing here for thousands of years. It's not as difficult to picture as it might be, and Ghost could blame the alcohol or getting caught up in the festivities, the tales and myth of wandering spirits. Either way, he can almost see it, the people that must've come here to bury their dead, the effort it took to build these circles, to erect those stones. The circle they're sitting on clearly wasn't meant to be revisited, but the centre one was.

He doesn't know why, but from here, as an outsider not just by custom but through time, it feels like veneration. Softly, as if carried on the autumn breeze, Ghost can almost hear the ancient language they spoke the funerary rites in, see their shadows move in the dancing flames, smell the offerings they brought. It doesn't quite disappear when he pays closer attention, aware he's drunk and caught up in emotions that aren't his own, and ones that are but are so painful it's like sticking his hand into the fire.

"They're with us," someone says softly, sitting down next to him, and Ghost pulls his gaze away from the flames.

Nora smiles a distant sort of smile, at once ethereal in her linen gown, and entirely normal. Out of place and at home here, which seems fitting.

"Your mum?"

The question is out of line, far too personal, and not thought out, but she nods.

"Her, my da too. Maybe they're together now. She came here often, hoping to see him again, ye ken. Maybe she even did. Maybe I'll see them, too."

Ghost doesn't ask her how they'd be here, or how they'd know to find her, doesn't ask if she believes in spirits or any afterlife, and doesn't bring up anyone he's thinking of. He nods mostly to himself, and offers her the bottle of mead that he and Darragh have been sharing. Darragh shifts closer, not speaking but nudging under his arm on Ghost's other side, letting him take his weight as he gets comfortable.

All three of them are silent for a while, though their surroundings are far from quiet, lost in their own worlds together. Even Nora feels like part of this, here and now, though Ghost hardly knows her at all, linked through the same current of magic thrumming in the air like a distant drum beat, like flapping bird wings, like the buzz of a beehive, like the roaring fire warming their skin. Linked, to each other, to this place, through time and different ages, through dead and through living.

He's drunk, and his mixed emotions leave him laid open and bare, not quite a raw nerve but pulled in two directions. Grief and comfort, happiness he feels almost guilty for, as if he's not guilty enough.

Ghost doesn't see Price here, and he doesn't want to try, either. But he'd like to say sorry. For his death, for moving on, for giving up. All of it.

Nora pats his arm like she knows when she gives the bottle back and stands up on the uneven stones, but she leaves without another word, disappearing into the night when she steps off the cairn and out of the light. Like she wasn't here at all, though Ghost still feels the brush of her fingers through his jacket. Too caught up.

He takes a swig, returning to himself, lighter and weighed down at the same time, and hands the bottle to Darragh. Ignores the echo. 

"I could fall asleep here," Darragh comments while sitting up straight to drink, his grin around the bottle lazy and soft.

Ghost lights a cigarette, ignoring the pain in his legs and arse to keep sitting here for a little while longer. "We might need to…no state to be driving."

"Good thing I brought my pillow," Darragh grins wider, taking another swig of mead before he passes the bottle back to Ghost and lights a cigarette himself. "You feel like walking for a bit? Legs are killin' me."

He could do with some fresh air to sober up—Darragh certainly can too, his eye hazy and unfocused, dropping to Ghost's lips and his bitten neck, struggling to regain focus—and he's no more comfortable sitting here, despite being much less bony. Especially for this long, though they haven't sat here for the whole night.

"Got the distinct feeling you're trying to get in my pants," Ghost draws it out, taking a slow drag of his fag to see Darragh try to come up with a denial.

The struggle is rare and entertaining, since he's mouthy as hell otherwise, even drunk, but finally he bites his lip and shrugs one shoulder. "Maybe a little, though we might freeze our dicks off. I'll settle for some heavy petting. Or warm you up with my mouth."

"Is that so?" Ghost goads him some more, slight as it is—easy as it is—plenty interested in the idea himself. Only half sure that he can get it up. "Guess we could make use of the time. Haven't had you on your knees in a while…"

"Christ. Up, let's go, move out. Now."

Darragh shoves him into action, and It's almost as entertaining for him to pretend he's in charge, but Ghost stands, bottle and fag in one hand to haul Darragh up with the other.

Chapter Text

۝

Chapter Three

Darragh waves bye to a few people they talked to earlier, but there's no sign of Nora as they leave the site of the cairns and standing stones behind for a small path through the grove bordering them. It's dark here, with the bonfires and street lamps from the nearest road at their backs, the bright almost-November night sky hidden nearly entirely from view. Plenty of leaves—wet and slippery from the earlier rain—litter the path, but the trees are planted densely, and not close to barren.

Ghost glances at Darragh as they walk in silence, illuminated mostly by the tips of their cigarettes, and smiles to himself. To Darragh too, catching him in it before he can look away. He bumps into Ghost, affectionate and uncoordinated, a move that would be cute, if he wasn't using it to steal the nearly empty bottle out of Ghost's hand.

He's nearly successful, too, but Ghost holds it up and far out of his reach, making use of his height advantage. A little smug. 

"Oi, I'm not the one driving us back," Darragh complains, already onto different tactics — namely, trying to get Ghost to stop walking.

His efforts are half-assed since he's unwilling to drop his fag to have both hands free, but Ghost takes pity anyway. Much sooner than he would, though if they were sober, Darragh wouldn't be acting out quite like this, either. Not that he doesn't like to push and bait, but he's not too much of a brat usually. Stubborn, but that's different.

"You could be," Ghost points out belatedly, thoughts slow and stuck on how much he likes him, while Darragh drinks a few swallows triumphantly.

"Aye, I could be—well, not like this, I don't think tha's wise, is it?—but I'm letting you. Since you like being in control so much…” he counters, and shields the bottle with his body when Ghost goes to take it back. 

"Think you're spoiled," Ghost muses, dangling another tease just out of reach, "just a bit."

He can hold out longer, keep the 'princess' on his tongue just to watch Darragh want it. Best used sparingly, in any case.

"Just a bit, aye," he agrees as they stop just under the canopy, sounds of the festivities dull behind them, "even more seeing two of you." He giggles, pressing the mead back into Ghost's hand to get his own free to touch him. "Imagine tha'…think you'd break me, but it'd be worth it. Would you do it, a threesome with two of you an' one o' me?"

Ghost can't help his own laugh, a little loud for the quiet night. "Naturally. Get you between us, fuck you from both ends at once."

Not a bad image, but their kiss is soft when he leans down to claim Darragh's lips, tasting mead and smoke — and the sauce of something he ate earlier, stuck in his moustache. Gross, but not as if he's always the picture of clean, himself, either. They've seen each other at some of their worst throughout the years, and despite his current resurgence of grief he's trying his hardest to push down and away, this isn't close to any of that.

It's actually terrifyingly good.

They break apart, both a little breathless, just taking each other in. It's new, this, in a way. Ghost hasn't done the maths on how much of their relationship they've actually been together, but it hasn't been much, even after he handed his resignation in.

Working together—weeks on end or not, occasionally—wasn't the same as actually trying to be a couple. He's not sure if he's doing it right, but for the most part they click just as well when it's only them, when there's no greater good, and no team dynamics to consider. Not a weekend here and there. They've basically moved in together already, which — Ghost wasn't sure he'd like it, but he does. Morning runs and shared showers and making breakfast. 

Utter madness.

"Tall bloody bastard…" Darragh complains when he has to pull Ghost down for another kiss, shorter but heated, his voice as much a confession as the open look on his face.

Ghost says it back with his lips, with his hand in Darragh's hair, the slick slide of their tongues and the soft groan they share before pulling away again. He's half-hard, but that's not the point right now. They've got a bed waiting for them, or the car if it comes to that.

He takes the last drag of his cigarette as they step onto the road, and takes Darragh's hand in his own, interlacing their fingers. It's been a weird bloody night, but he feels steady again. Real and present. The only dead man walking.

"Was it like you thought, the bonfires?" Ghost asks, taking a sip of the mead, handing the last swallow over to Darragh, who drinks before he replies.

"Different from the few I've been to back home," he muses, pausing to set the bottle on a fence post, "and none of those had people practising druidry like that. But they weren't at a place like this, so it might be similar, I don't know. Sad lack of masks and beasts made from straw…but worth missing out on more of that apple pie."

"A loss, that," Ghost hums, barely thinking about the pie at all. 

He wonders if it was just him, caught up in whatever that was, or if Darragh felt it too. Inane as the thought is.

Before he can ask, Darragh points to their two o'clock. "Look at that. Massive thing, innit? Mind seeing if we can get closer?"

A viaduct, old looking, but not close to as old as some of the sites and ruins they've visited on their way through the country.

"You’ve seen a bridge before…wouldn’t have got in your pants if I knew it led to this" he trails off, joking. Mostly.

It’s been interesting, the castles and other ruins, but they blend after enough of them. Ghost has been more interested in the natural sites they went to. Mountains and moors and thick forests, encountering few people and plenty of wildlife. No hunting, and little camping, but nice breaks from their stays in towns.

"You nearly fuckin' creamed your own before we even got them down," Darragh points out much too gleefully for a man who was no better, "I guess these blokes had the right idea with kilts. Easy access, nice breeze. Living the dream."

"Apart from the bit where they all died in a battle they couldn't win, led by an incompetent fool," Ghost adds, a bit harsh, speaking with little actual knowledge of their side of things and mostly distracted by the thought of hairy thighs and bare arse. Easy access indeed.

"Not all," Darragh corrects him halfheartedly, "though if they fought there and lived, they probably wouldn't for long. We should go up tomorrow, learn it proper like, aye? Wasn't something they taught extensively in school. And I certainly wasn't payin' attention."

Ghost snorts at that. He was much the same, if he went to class at all. He's not dumb, grades notwithstanding, but he had a lot of shite on his mind. School wasn't close to his highest priority.

There’s something ironic about planning to visit a place where so much blood was shed, them being who they are and doing what they do. Him, especially, since Darragh doesn't fight for his country; his employer follows the money, not a cause or a crown. Ghost doubts he has any ancestors that fought there himself, but the connection exists regardless. The Jacobites rebelled, and his countrymen ensured it was the last time they ever did. All over what tosser sat on the throne.

Easy to say for him to say, entirely removed from it, but from Ghost's position it all seems bloody pointless.

Their conversation drifts from history and fights—and kilts—to the rest of their trip, and their destination. They'll do more sightseeing in Ireland, but only after a break. Darragh has a large family, but the most important members to meet are his parents and siblings, especially his little brother. His best friend when they were kids, like him and Tommy, though that's not the same.

Ghost wouldn't say that he's excited, and it's not just because of the memories it’ll stir. He's not sure if he'll make a good impression, being the way he is. Masked or not, people have a tendency to be wary. For good reason, usually — before. He's not that, he's not Ghost, but still can't make himself reclaim his name fully. Offers it when asked, responds when called, but it's like putting on an old jacket. Too small and moth-eaten, poking his fingers through the holes.

The one he's wearing doesn't fit either, but it's better than freezing.

It's not far to the viaduct, walking along the single lane road—keeping an ear out for any sound of traffic, since the lack of lamps renders them nigh invisible to cars—a river some distance to their left, judging by vegetation and the wide arch of the viaduct where it goes over. They're not quite holding hands now, instead slipping to what they use as a wordless sign that can mean almost anything. It's childish, too, but ingrained and entwined in their history together.

They're holding pinkies. Like shy schoolchildren.

It didn't start out as holding them like this. Nothing but a quick hook in a joking pact, initiated by Darragh and sealed while knowing they’d break it. Enough’s enough. Three wanks in a day.

It morphed into more over the years, promises, reassurance, a firm later, though that could mean a fight or a fuck. They don't fight often, but they're not perfect either. He can be cold and distant, Darragh can be so bloody stubborn it's like talking to a rock, they're both cunts. Somehow, it always works out eventually, with space or actual talking, effort or none at all.

The viaduct is massive from up close, and its arches loom overhead, stretching as if holding up the sky. Nothing to light it but the stars, not even the moon shining down. They can get off the road here, without needing to step into the tall grass or over the fence, a gravel spot to pull over and park between two of the arches. Deserted, though it looks like to be in use sometimes, graffiti on the stones and discarded bottles and food wrappers littering the area.

"Quite a bit newer than most of the places we've been to," Ghost remarks, letting go of Darragh's finger to touch the cool stones, nothing at all like the ones they just came from.

"Aye, bet it's from — what? Early nineteen hundreds? Late eighteen. Fuck if I know," Darragh laughs, touching them too, "nice spot for a snog, but not very romantic."

"You're a romantic now?"

He doesn't give Darragh the chance to answer before grabbing his wrist and flipping him around to pin it—and him—to the arch, not as quick as he would be if he was sober, but faster than Darragh can keep up with. He groans low in his throat, but puts up zero fight, only struggling to keep eye contact.

"I could be," he argues after a beat, continuing the conversation as if nothing changed, "light some candles, bring a picnic. Woo you proper and that…go down on one knee."

"Just one?"

"Just one, but I guess I could multitask. Bit difficult to ask you wi' my mouth full, though," Darragh smirks up at him, and they're suddenly a lot less drunk than they were, but Ghost isn't sure how to read this. 

If he means what it sounds like, or if it's an early out, if he's only floating the idea, if he means it at all. 

"I meant to wait," Darragh goes on, no longer smirking, and Ghost releases his wrist, though keeps him bracketed against the viaduct, heart beating in his throat, "an' you're free to say fuck no. Jacket, inner pocket."

Ghost stares at him a second longer, letting his words sink in. It's not unexpected, but he thought—assumed—that it was little more than a passing thought, something for an uncertain future they've been feeling out. This is…it's soon. He hasn't asked yet, but it's soon. And real. 

Everything on Darragh's face tells him that he means it. Here and now. 

It takes another slow breath in and out before Ghost creates some space between them, first tracing his fingers over Darragh's cheek, under the flutter of his lashes, one eye uncertain but sure, the other unseeing and pale as always. Ghost held it once, felt it warm in his hand after Darragh cleaned it, sharing a strange form of intimacy. 

Neither of them closed their jackets after sitting close to the fire, and they’re warm with its residual heat and the alcohol in their blood — Ghost's hasn't run cold like he thought it would. His hand doesn’t shake while reaching into Darragh’s pocket, or when he finds the small, square shape. Nor when he pulls it out and holds it in his fist without looking. 

This is real.

Darragh wraps his own hand around Ghost's so that they're holding it together between their bodies, their beating hearts, their shared breaths. Like they're already speaking a vow.

Finally, Ghost opens his hand to reveal the worn velvet ring box. He doesn't know what to say.

Darragh looks afraid but sure as he takes the box from Ghost’s hand, and he doesn't go down on one knee when he opens it and turns it to present to him, meeting Ghost's eyes again.

"I know it's soon. And I wanted to wait, find the perfect spot back home, show you that I mean it. 'Cause I do mean it. I'm not asking for a plan, nothing set in stone. But I am asking for the future. A future, with you. Will you marry me?"

Ghost doesn't cry easy or often, but he's close to tearing up now. And as much as this scares him, as unsure as he is, not of loving him but being worth his love, there is nothing else he can say, not with his heart so full it's close to rupturing. Not reason or fear or disbelief can keep him from it.

They're cast in shadow and hidden from the heavens, but embraced on either side by the stars as a distant church announces a new day, no matter how far off dawn is. His voice comes out shaky and raw, though his vision remains clear, eyes trained only on Darragh's face.

"Yes. I will. You — you've no idea how much you mean to me. How much I love you. I'm not letting you get away, sweetheart."

"I was hoping you'd say that," Darragh grins wide, biting his lip, and he motions for Ghost's hand. "I doubt it'll fit any bloody part of ya, but it's symbolic, yeah? Was my nan's, the one that passed. Keep it on a chain or in the box, but she wanted me to give it to my world."

Ghost takes the ring in for the first time, and sees how fitting his words are. It's an antique, worn silver shaped like two small figures clasping their forearms together around a sapphire, blue as deep oceans. Around the world. His experience with engagement rings is admittedly small to non-existent, but Ghost hasn't seen anything like it.

"Your nan had good taste," is what he says for some bloody reason, but Darragh's laugh is bright.

"I wouldn't say that, granda was a bleedin' wanker, but the ring's not bad. Can't size it up, though, I asked," he replies while slipping it the only place it'll go; Ghost's pinky finger, to the second knuckle but no further.

They look at it together, still holding hands until they shift to hook their pinky fingers around each other. He can't wear it there forever for the risk of losing it, but it's achingly fitting for now.

"Fit you better than me," Ghost murmurs, bringing their hands together to Darragh's chin, tilting him up for a kiss, sharing breath for a moment before he finally slots their lips together.

"Yeah, you're a big cunt," Darragh sighs between kisses, leaning back against the viaduct and winding his arms around Ghost's neck to keep him close, "fuck, me proposin' got you this hard?"

As if he's in any position to talk, Ghost feels when he cups his cock to make sure, bloody jumping against his palm. "Just me, is it?"

Darragh moans in response, pushing into his touch and pulling on him harder as Ghost licks into his mouth, hungry and sloppy. They make out like they're fucking, all thrusting tongues and spit-slick lips, panting through their noses and nearly bloody scuffling against the rough stone archway. Until Darragh pushes him away by his shoulders, cursing under his breath.

"Fuck — Christ, that was a close call," he laughs, dazed and half in disbelief, though Ghost wasn't all that far behind him.

"You’re Catholic. Means no fuckin’ before marriage," he teases, risking another squeeze to Darragh's cock, so wet for him that he soaked through his jeans, "this might be all you’re getting for a while."

They both know that he doesn't mean a word of it, but at the same time, engagement sex should be a little more than sharing a handy under a bridge. Probably. Romance, all that. 

Darragh bites his lip, and slides his hands from Ghost's shoulders to his tits for a grope before landing on his belt. "Can’t wait that long. We’re in Scotland, get handfasted right here, fuck me after."

"Should take my time with you. Nice and slow, lick you open or use how fuckin' wet you get. Made to be fucked, aren't you?"

Fighting words, often—the fun kind—but Darragh only shudders hard, getting Ghost's belt open with practised fingers. "Forget the handfasting. Best get to it, sir."

Fucking hell. 

The sir is a low blow, working exactly as intended. Ghost leans in and lets his breath brush over Darragh's ear and neck, nips his pierced lobe instead of talking, distracted by the urge to maul him. He bites Darragh's neck after, on his moan and the slip of his fingers as he tries to unbutton Ghost's cargo trousers.

"Fuck…harder, please. Think I'm — fuck, fuck, please," he mumbles, desperate and hitched, muscles taut and leaving no question that he means it.

Ghost isn't even touching him now, hands planted on the wall. He's tempted to bite down harder and make him come just like this, but lets go instead. Regretfully, though it's worth savouring the moment a little longer than this.

"Car," he orders against Darragh's lips without kissing him properly, and still doesn't call him 'princess' like he wants to. He's pretty sure that'd push Darragh right over the edge, practically mewling for it. "C'mon, sweetheart."

It's not far, but it'll get them to cool off a bit. His cock twitches hard at the brush of Darragh's knuckles when he stops trying to get his trousers open, and Ghost palms himself for some relief before refastening his belt. He wouldn't make it more than a few thrusts right now, but he's so hard that it's not easy to stand his ground when Darragh makes a pained noise, refusing to peel himself off the wall.

"I take it back," he makes a point of looking down at his crotch, and the visible stain even in the dark, "you're pure bloody evil, babe. I can't marry the devil, can I?"

"Should've thought of that before you proposed," Ghost deadpans, turning around like he means to leave him behind — and to hide the grin he almost breaks into at Darragh's frustrated noise, "only one way out of it now. And I don't mean to kill you yet." He walks onto the road, not checking but sure that Darragh will follow. "Don't become roadkill, either."

"As long as I'm still warm," Darragh calls after him, but moments later he pushes off the wall, hurried steps in the gravel before he reaches the road, "Christ, hold on. I know that made your prick harder, bloody freak."

Ghost lets him catch up, grinning over his shoulder. "Coming from the man that had me put my fingers in his eyehole 'just a little'. Think you're lucky you found me."

A beat, as Darragh entwines their pinkies again, the ring between them, their eyes drifting back to each other.

"Think so, too."

۝

1 November 2024

Ghost opens and closes their bedroom door quietly, leaving his fiancé to sleep in the large bed and warm sheets. Naked and sprawled out, limbs flung wide and loose, face buried in the pillow, breathing slow and deep. Hungover and fucked out, same as Ghost, though the glass of water he chugged in the bathroom did wonders.

Fresh air will do more, though his run will be a jog at most — he's going out to go out, truthfully, not to keep up with his training on a morning like this. But he does run nearly every morning, a routine so ingrained he can't get rid of the urge. 

Which means that Darragh won't worry if he wakes up before he's back, won't get the wrong idea; that he's running, trying to get away.

It's a lot to think about, but his engagement ring is secure on his finger, the box safely with his other belongings. He should probably have taken it off for exercise, but it feels safe enough for now. He'll get a chain to wear it on his neck, and something suitable for Darragh, though he has no heirlooms, nothing this meaningful to give.

Enough time to find it, though. He's read something about Claddagh rings, and since they're on their way to Ireland, that seems fitting. Maybe.

They won't get married at the earliest convenience, though Ghost is less scared of the idea than he should be. Whether it'll work out forever or not, he doesn't know. But he wants to try. See what their life can be, together. Their future.

His breath stutters in his chest as he walks down the driveway in his joggers and long-sleeve shirt, halting on the crushing thought that pushes to the surface.

Of the only person he'd care to tell.

The rest of the team were his mates, too, some more and some less. But Price is the one he'd tell with more than the potential invitation to their wedding. No grand spectacle, just as Price wouldn't do more than nod and buy him a bourbon to celebrate, but it's the principle. He'd tell Price, since it's thanks to him that they even met — way beyond the road that led them to working together.

Missing him isn't the worst of this. It's feeling this bloody sorry for himself when it's his fault. Ghost didn't pull the trigger, but he should've caught the bullet.

He pushes off and pushes down the bile burning up his throat, the scene burned into his retinas, the sound Price made when he dropped — he can't, he can't, he needs to stop, and he needs to run harder. He can't breathe, though he's breathing fine, and he can't see, though he sees the streets he passes, the cars and houses and each lamp pole beaming down like safe points in a video game. Ghost runs without a goal in mind but stopping the spiral, nothing but the need to feel nothing except his burning lungs and muscles, measured and desperate, in full control and powerless.

He runs until he's out of the city, following the road on a tiny path alongside it, cars zipping past — one veer by either them or him would be all it takes, and he's in all black to boot, blending in with the predawn muted blacks and blues. Not the blur of head and tail lights, sharp whites, beamed yellows, and watery reds.

Not the same red, and yet.

And yet, it's nearly all what he sees — it's what he wishes was all he sees.

Worse ways to end, he's seen those plenty, inflicted them countless times when not picking targets from a cold distance, just as unfeeling up close and gruesome, not his people, not his problem, greater good. The greater good they fought for together and Ghost only cared about because he’s good at it. 

Was good at it. Lines they crossed, unflinching. People die for their cause all the time, for no reason or many, and he knew things would end this way.

He just thought that it'd be him.

Price brought him back, gave him purpose, and pulled him in close. And now he's gone for the effort. The misplaced trust.

It should've been Ghost, he should've repaid his debt.

He comes to a stop on shaking legs he can't feel, hands on his knees to catch his breath, and vomits nothing but foamy bile in the tall grass, so violently that it feels as if his stomach tries to heave itself from him with the grief and the guilt. 

It hasn't been this bad in a while. 

He's alright. 

It's okay. He was waiting for this to hit, it's been building like a storm on the horizon with the approaching month and date, he just — Christ.

Not like this.

He's alright. Or at least back in control enough to keep breathing and straighten up, assess where the hell he ran, and how long it'll take him to get back. Darragh will understand, and won't judge or push. He's a menace, and Ghost doesn't deserve him one bit, but he has no intention of letting him go.

First he checks his watch, a better indication than some random road out of Inverness of how far he went, at least without any signs in his immediate vicinity. It's a quarter past seven, meaning he ran for almost an hour, without pacing himself, measuring his breaths and footsteps for control and endurance. He probably did, just not consciously. 

It's near dawn, too. Still dark on the ground, but the sky shows signs of the approaching sun. It'll take him about double the time to walk back, but it's far from a real challenge, though he'll feel it later.

He feels it now. 

No cash on hand and no phone, but Ghost walked for much longer under much worse conditions. He's fine. A low point, he can admit that, but it's ebbing away slowly, at least the worst of it.

He glances around for an indication of where he ran, a road sign or advertisement to any of the myriad of local sights to see. He's not on the main road, though he doesn't remember leaving it, and sees nothing — no. 

Up in the distance, and only a corner of it past a forest—or a grove, he corrects himself—Ghost spots the viaduct.

Where he got bloody engaged last night. Drunk or not, he meant every word. Apart from the necrophilia jokes.

Instead of turning back, Ghost walks on in the direction of the cairns. Curiosity, or a strange pull to see them without all the people there, in the quiet morning of All Saints'. He's still jittery, though no longer from emotion, and drenched in cooling sweat, but he's more settled now. Calmer, rational, apart from taking the time to go look at some old rocks instead of starting his walk back to Darragh.

Ghost rubs his thumb over the ring as he walks, glancing down at two little silver figures, the stone they embrace between them, and wonders how long Darragh has had it. How long he's thought about giving it to him. It both seems reasonable enough, for how close they've been even when they couldn't be, and completely unthinkable. Seeing any future at all isn't something Ghost needed to bother with much, and so he hasn't, but seeing one with Darragh is — it scares him, and he can't focus too long on the guilt of it, of wanting it.

But he does want it. For as long and as far as they'll go.

He comes up on the small car park a few minutes later, and pauses to pump some water meant for dogs and refilling bottles, head under the spray to drink instead of a cupped hand. It helps, and Ghost rubs the leftover water over his head and the back of his sweaty neck, breathing in the damp, fresh air. 

This place is close to home, relatively speaking, but almost mythical on some days.

He's not the only one here; a few cars are scattered through the car park, early visitors or staying late and driving back when sober, like he and Darragh almost settled on. An orgasm and nap was enough to clear his head enough to drive, though, and by the time they made it back to the guest house, tired as they were, they couldn't keep their hands to themselves when they got in bed as fiancés for the first time.

Less considerate than they probably should've been, and Ghost vows to buy their hosts something to make up for it. 

It's all cheesy in a way that has him instinctively reach for defensive, but as raw and broken as he feels some days, still, as inhuman and empty and pointless, as difficult as it is to want this, in their own shape and image, he knows it's not easy for Darragh either. 

They've been forging this path together, and he'd be a bloody fool to risk that by rebuilding the walls only two people climbed over.

Price and him, that wasn't ever romantic, and it sure as shite wasn't family, either. The last thing Ghost needed was touching that gaping wound. But even Darragh doesn't quite know him like Price did. He misses him, as much as there were times when he hated him. Years and years ago, not recent. And not personal, though it was, in a way. Too many conflicting emotions to deal with, when Ghost was used to having none at all.

He doesn't feel guilty enough for thinking it, or remembering it. He was a weak spot, and even healing it over — Christ, it won't ever be now. Ghost doesn't want it to be, either. As if Price would want him to carry this forever. He has to. There's nowhere to put it down. And same as with declining his promotion and the captaincy, same as with leaving the task force Price built and believed in, counting on him to be its foundation, Ghost hopes he can forgive him. See his side, at least, stubborn bloody bastard as he was.

His laugh is almost a sob, though he's not crying. Just losing his mind.

Ghost shakes it off, last night's elation and fear, this morning's reckoning with things he's been putting off for close to a year — sometimes successfully and sometimes not. It's not done, but he can't take more of it, not now. Not ever, unavoidable as it is, Price's lack of a presence haunting him like a spectre.

If he wasn't still picking up the pieces, he'd manage to find a joke in there somewhere. Price would pretend not to laugh, and pat him on the shoulder or chest, gruffly tell him to stick to his strengths. The sting hurts in a good way, almost, and Ghost takes a breath before he continues to the cairns and their millennia of history.

He stops in his tracks at what he sees when he's almost through this side of the grove, and instinctively steps behind a tree to keep from being noticed.

From the cars he saw, he didn't assume he'd be alone. But this seems — he's not sure. Private, in a way that last night's ritual was meant to be shared and public, if not interfered with.

A group of women, each dressed the same in white linen robes, barefoot on the dewy autumn grass. 

They're lighting those same candles, one by one and near the centre cairn — the one that's built higher, but accessible by a tight passageway. One of them he recognises as Nora, though the one seemingly leading the whole group is none other than Maud. Ghost thought she was at home, didn’t notice her car with the others.

Nor did she mention that she'd be here. 

It bothers him, overlooking something like that, but Ghost stays put and watches the group of fifteen take their place between the cairn and the standing stones that fan out around it, ordered from oldest to youngest. They stand in silence, waiting as Ghost does, though he's not sure for what until the sky turns orange with the break of dawn.

Practised and fluid, the group raises their candles, and Maud steps just before the opening into the cairn, her voice clear and ringing out amongst the stones, carrying on the mist. She sings in a language Ghost doesn't recognise though seems familiar, and the group falls in on her last word, repeating while she continues, steps back into her place, and leads them into a circling dance. All at once, they weave around and between the standing stones that surround the burial cairn, moving from stone to stone as Maud sings and her followers echo the song.

With their arms outstretched but never touching, the candles become streaks of light between the stones until they suddenly stop, and half the dancers split off to dance into the other direction. Effortless and graceful despite the variance in their ages and size, practised or performed so often that they don't need to. Maud takes her place by the entrance to the passageway again, her voice rising, not loud but clear, the words enunciated and throaty — reminiscent of both Gaelic and something Scandinavian, but too strange for either.

She finishes with a call that seems to ring off each stone in turn through the echoing response from the other druids, raising their candles to the sky as the dawn light reaches Maud. It washes over her in the swirling mist, an embrace of bright orange in a slow cascade, and then focused into a tight beam through the path into the cairn.

Ghost's heart beats deafeningly loud in the sudden silence, and he waits with bated breath as though something is about to happen, without knowing what that would even be. Risen dead, calling a soul back through the supposedly thin veil, or something like the stones shifting and opening up into something to reveal an ancient secret — bloody mad, he's aware, but for a moment magic seems real.

Nothing of the sort happens, and nothing else either. The dance—or ritual—concluded, and the druids lower their candles before blowing them out, casual and unceremoniously, moving again like normal people, some sinking back into bad posture instead of their momentary elegance. They're talking too, in English and light tones, though Ghost can't quite make out what they're saying.

For some reason, unnecessary as it seems, he remains where he is, hiding behind his tree as they start to make their way back to the car park — right past him in groups of two or three. Nora and Maud make up the rear of the small procession, arms linked as though they're old friends instead of acquaintances.

"Och aye, what wonder…ye never know, dear. Ye never know," Maud sounds like herself again, a kind voice but in no way mystical as the song she led, and she pats Nora's arm as they pass him, unaware, "time for some tea to warm up again, no? I might even have some leftover pie."

Nora's agreement fades with their footsteps through the fallen leaves, and Ghost finishes his circling of the tree to stay out of view and out of private affairs. He watches them and the last group ahead of them until they disappear to their cars, to modern life instead of strange traditions. 

And then he steps back onto the path himself, brushing spiderwebs from his sweaty clothes. By now, he's thoroughly cooled off, but he was too caught up in watching whatever that was for it to register.

Similar to last night's dance, but only insofar as they were dressed up and moving in circles. There was no singing like that, candles left in place, no bare feet. And this morning there were no men involved. Darragh might know something about it, or he could just ask Maud or Nora. Just like he could've asked for a bloody ride back into the city, he realises belatedly.

And he hears that buzzing again. 

It's distant, but disconcerting in a way he can't put his finger on, raising the hair on the back of his neck, goosebumps on his arms even under his long-sleeve. Melodramatics, but purely physical; he's not afraid of an ancient cemetery, nor losing his grip on last year's loss again.

A little shaken, he can admit that, but it's no wonder after just how hard he slipped. Torturing himself with it won't bring Price back, though. Most times, that's enough. Not to feel better or forgive himself, let alone forget, but enough to lock it away and do what he needs to. Though he supposes there's very little, without the task force counting on him.

Or anyone else except for Darragh.

It's a quarter to eight now, around two hours before he's back, and if Ghost had his phone with him, he'd text to let him know. They can both handle themselves, but he'd be worried if it was the other way around.

Despite that, Ghost doesn't hurry back. He takes in the sight of the three cairns, spread out in a line and far apart, the road going past it at one end, and the grove along the length and other side, hiding the fields that lie beyond along with the smaller road that leads to the viaduct and further — Ghost doesn't know where, more fields most likely. But here, the middle cairn looms before him, though it's not tall enough to call it looming. Its opening faces east, to the sunrise that fell over it.

Through it.

Ghost hasn't been inside before, though there aren't any signs prohibiting it. No signs at all, except for the one closer to the road, which he glanced at last night but didn't really read. Just a small map, you are here, and illustrated with a reconstruction of how it must've looked thousands of years ago. Judging by the worn path in the dirt, plenty of people go inside.

Ghost just wonders if it's only tourists, if the locals here hear that same buzzing and decide it's best to stay clear. He's losing his bloody mind. This isn't a sign of PTSD, he's fairly sure — he should know, having close to twenty years of experience hiding the ones he had. Less, since they didn't bother checking until there was no one to brush it off.

And losing grip of reality certainly counts, on second thought.

The druid dancers left no signs but some disturbed leaves and grass, toes dug into the wet earth as they moved in perfect sync, and Ghost pauses at the two tallest standing stones, some distance away but almost like a gate to the cairn's passage. That sound is getting louder, twisting, a deep hum underneath. Almost like distant music, but — warning, he thinks, and almost laughs. 

A beehive, more likely, or nearby power lines hitting a frequency just right.

It's not like him to follow anything but reason or well-honed instincts, but a week ago—and maybe even a day ago—he didn't think himself the marrying type, either. And he wants to know what the hell is making that noise in there, bee stings be damned.

Ghost takes a breath of the crisp autumn air as he steps through the gap between the standing stones. By now, the sun is fully up and bathes the site in pale orange hues and long shadows, though the mist hasn't quite cleared. He's not sure what he expects to find inside the cairn aside from nothing, whoever was buried there long since turned to dust — don't. Don't. 

He's not sure if it would've made a difference, if Price opted for cremation, but he doubts it. All it would've changed is the knowledge, the month by month progression, the sometimes vile urge to lie down beside him, as if that would change things.

There's no turning back time.

Ghost nearly rolls his eyes at his continued theatrics, pretending he doesn't feel the stab of pain through his thoroughly mangled heart. His full heart, no matter how guilty he feels. He didn't think he was capable of loving someone like this. They're fucked up, both of them, but they fit like lock and key.

He just — Christ, he misses Price.

He saw the cairn from close enough last night, but with the unspoken rule to leave it alone, he didn't take in just how much it differs from the other two, aside from the obvious; its standing stones are taller, and so is the cairn itself. The others aren't all that high, at least not these days. About knee height, their now-empty centres are maybe two metres in diameter. People were smaller then, but Ghost mostly wonders what set the ones buried there aside from the one, or multiple, interred here. Status, he guesses, one of the unchanging constants throughout history.

The passageway is so narrow that he hardly fits through it without inching sideways, low at the front and quickly building to just above head-high. The sound builds, too. It's still a buzzing, the high frequency almost painful now, and the lower thrum so deep he feels it in his teeth.

Ghost walks on against all instinct to not just turn back but run, pulled to the centre now by a force he could resist if he wanted to, grasping hold of him that he knows he could shake off, but doesn't. The layers of stones to build this rise higher and higher around him, and he sees the wide circle of the inner cairn in the near distance like the centre point of a labyrinth, not because of any winding path to follow, but for its inevitability. 

Drums layer the buzzing, voices join the chorus, and Ghost doesn't realise he's crying until he steps into the centre.

Not sobbing, no heaving breaths, but tears roll silently down his cheeks, hot against his suddenly clammy skin, his stomach lurching as if he's falling a great distance, but sharp and fast, the ground rushing up to meet him in a deadly collision, in viscera splattered on concrete, in final moments of regret.

He falls like the sudden lurch of a car over a bridge's barrier, like a hard shove, and like completely unexpected love. Not like jumping from a plane or scaling down a building. It's fearful screams, it's animal panic, and it hurts.

It hurts so much that he's not sure that those screams aren't his own, as if his skin is torn from his body, his body from his soul, and his bones crushed and ground not to dust but to a wet and pulpy mulch.

His last thoughts aren't 'finally' or 'I'm sorry' or hope.

His last thought is 'no, not yet, please.'

A final chance, a last dance, the chance to say goodbye to the only person who knows him like the one he's following the footsteps of.

As always, unquestionable loyalty. Heaven or hell, come what may.

A red beacon in the darkness.

Chapter Text

۝

Chapter Four

21 November 2023

«Bravo 0-7, we need backup here, now!» Price booms through comms, and the explosion in the distance was enough to spur Ghost on, but Price doesn't just sound urgent.

He sounds injured.

But Ghost and his half of the team—Darragh and a bloke from Banshee, a squad of them dropped as backup—are pinned down in the tunnel. So are the others on the other side, after Price and the demolitions expert barely squeezed through to the platform.

Most of the cops are dead, and the Banshee grunts aren't doing much better against the waves and waves of Konnis. No sign of Makarov.

Ghost shouldn't have interfered.

He locks eyes with Darragh—Snake on ops, clear-headed and unattached, no other way to do it—and doesn't need to speak. The second they rain down covering fire, Ghost runs.

One's better than none.

۝

Unknown 

Ghost wakes to the distant sounds of a fight, but not the inhuman screams, the thrumming maelstrom, the terror seizing his body and squeezing until he was gone.

It takes him more than a second to open his eyes. The sun glows red from behind his eyelids, and shines directly overhead when he manages to blink.

He's still in the centre of the burial cairn, wrecked like a night of boozing, body aching as if he was in a crash instead of — he's unsure. Tripped and hit his head, fainted? Unlikely, that. He ran hard and long on nothing but a glass of water, but he's not that soft.

He's not dead, either.

Surprising after the panic and how real it felt. Not like one of bloody fits, though those feel real, too.

Judging by the position of the sun now versus walking in here, he was out for more than a minute or two, in turn meaning that he might have a concussion, but Ghost feels alright. Unharmed, anyway. Nothing but bruised and the strange sense of jarring awake from an unintended nap, wondering what fucking day it is.

He brushes the twigs and dirt from his clothes when he stands up, damp from the soil but dried from his sweat. Whatever the noise was that led him in here—or warned him to stay out—it's gone entirely.

The fighting isn't, though it's not as loud, not the same.

Like this morning, there's no birdsong in the trees, and it's oddly eerie in the moments of sudden silence. Ghost makes his way back out through the narrow passageway and its moss-covered stones, stacked with great care by hands long since gone. It can't have been easy building this without much in the way of tools.

The cairns are one thing, but the standing stones surrounding them are another. Not all of them are massive, especially not the ones they chose for the other cairns — the ones closed except their centres. The tallest of those stones reach to about his chest. People were smaller then.

Which begs the question of how the bloody hell they moved the largest stones into place, taller than Ghost and about as wide. Weighing a ton or more.

Another bout of yelling and then gunfire starts Ghost back into action after losing focus, mind still swimming on what the fuck happened to him here. The sounds come from past the grove, and Ghost heads in that direction on a jog, cautious of bullets and unarmed.

Bloody stupid, not his problem, and yet.

He must've taken a different path in, because where he expects to find the small back road, he finds only more trees, and the path curves left sharply. Ghost steps off it as the sounds get louder, moving ducked through the underbrush until he stops in his tracks at what he sees.

Someone dressed up as a soldier, but not a modern one. The man darts through the forest in a red blur, unaware of Ghost's presence, running like he's in pursuit, not being chased.

A reenactment. That makes sense, with the holiday. Or they're filming a scene for some film, but Ghost doesn't see any crew or cameras, doesn't hear anyone yelling 'cut!'. He shakes his head to himself just as another appears.

This time, he doesn't go unnoticed.

Ghost nods at the man in acknowledgement, ready to make his way back to the cairns, the car park, and then all the way to the guesthouse. The soldier doesn't nod back but raises his gun; a musket, old-fashioned and front loaded, fitting entirely with his redcoat get-up.

Ghost isn't part of this, but he holds his hands up in mock surrender — for nothing. The soldier fires, and the bullet, the real bullet, misses him by a hair's breadth.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Where did you get that, and who the bloody hell is in charge here?" Ghost barks at him like a dumb fuck of a recruit mishandling his weapon on the range before he even parses that the shot could've killed him or anyone else he decides to aim at.

The silver lining is that he'll need to reload between each shot, and Ghost charges over when the man doesn't respond, fumbling with the powder bag — who signed off on this, let alone without proper training? The man fumbles for a millisecond longer, eyes wide and fearful, and then, all of a sudden, drops his weapon and runs.

Ghost almost checks behind himself for a monster, used to the reaction but not outside of combat, meaning without his gear and mask. It sure as hell feels like he's caught on the set of some shitty film Chuck always tried to get them to watch with him, sharks in tornadoes and zombies in Jane Austen. Ghost picks the musket up when he reaches the spot the actor or re-enactor stood, and he may not know shite about history, but he knows his guns.

He wasn't wrong. It's real.

There's no point in running after the man and Ghost didn't get a clear look at him, but if he was aware, that means he just tried to bloody kill him without speaking a single word. Even in an active war zone, the ROE usually excludes anyone unarmed. And they're both civilians, pretending otherwise with a costume doesn't change that.

Ghost takes the musket with him, if only to stop him from harming anyone else if the coward decides to come looking for it. Not much he can do besides hand it over to the authorities and let them deal with this.

The sounds of the fight are distant and all but gone now, the production moved on. The would-be murderer was a straggler, he guesses when no others follow.

It would be exactly none of his concern if there wasn't still a real risk someone might get hurt, and even that — Ghost isn't in the business of saving or taking lives now. But he does have some moral obligation to make sure, and follows it against all odds, when he'd much fucking rather mind his own and get back to the city.

He doesn't run full speed after the man, and it's less laziness or disinterest than the remaining shakiness from passing out like that, legs trembling under his weight like a newborn fawn.

Some more water on his way back will set him right, but for now jogs through the grove — the forest, really. Denser than he thought it was last night when he took that other path with Darragh, to the back road past some fields. Drunk and stupidly in love. He'll be worried, wondering where the fuck Ghost went.

Phone left behind and running clothes gone are obvious clues, but it's been hours.

Ghost reaches the river he notes last night before making his way out into a field first. It's disorienting, but he doesn't waste long on wondering how or if there's just another river here. A few metres below him, the banks sloped broadly, the water up high with autumn rain, flowing hard but smoothly.

And on the bank, footprints.

They lead away upstream, not through it, and there are less than Ghost would expect to find from the earlier shouting. He hears nothing but the river now, straining his ears as he follows the footprints from the treeline.

They're spaced wide and dug in deep; running.

Two sets, he's fairly sure, without moving out into the open to look closer.

And coming up on a bend, Ghost hears the unmistakable wet smacks of a bloodied fist on bloodied skin. He runs, silent and steady now, body working like it should, responding without thought.

Ghost doesn't burst on scene, but rounds the corner and halts.

There, on the bank and close to the water, the pounding continues. Over and over and over, with blood drops flying through the air on every punch, every pull-back. Ghost only stares for a moment, watching the redcoat actor land blow after blow on one dressed as a highlander. Entirely motionless, and the only reason his head doesn't lol with every punch is the redcoat pinning him by his throat.

He might as well be a corpse if it wasn't for the wheezing breath he sucks in.

"Off him!" Ghost yells, spurred into action, and taking off running down the bank to interfere in the plain and completely fucking senseless assault. "It's not bloody real, mate! Get the hell off him."

The redcoat looks over his shoulder at the intrusion, and Ghost's heart stops. He freezes on the bank, trainers sinking into the loamy soil, cold sweat on his neck. Blinking to clear his vision, to see something real. Not this, not —

A pair of familiar small and lined grey-blue eyes bore into him, and Ghost's voice shakes when he manages to speak.

"Captain? I — how? What are you doing here?"

He's dreaming, or hit his head so hard on that fall that he's in a coma, somewhere in a hospital on life support while they find his non-existent next of kin. He's just confused, dehydrated, too little sleep. Something.

Anything.

Price—with long hair tied into a low ponytail and clean-shaven in his replica getup, what the entire fuck—gets off the other man while rolling his neck and shoulders like he just had an intense work-out. Casual, and both so similar and so different from how Ghost knows him to handle a target that he's almost too distracted to notice him raise his pistol.

"Drop your weapon. You're interfering with the Crown's business. Who are you and what are you doing in these woods?"

Who?

He sounds like Price, even speaking like he's still in character, and he looks like him, too. But Price wouldn't pretend to not know him.

Would he?

Ghost struggles to form a thought past panic or relief, unable to comprehend what he's seeing. Who he's seeing.

"We buried you," he finally brings out, broken and confused — he's fucking trembling, Christ, "Price, what are you doing here?"

"I can assure you, I've not been buried yet. And I said, drop your weapon."

"Are you —"

"Now," Price interrupts him, and Ghost tosses it to the side; he has no intention to harm him, unloaded or not. It has to be some elaborate prank. Something.

"Very good. Now," Price nods his head to the unresponsive man by the river, breathing shallowly but still alive, "you've interrupted justice. Do you know how long I've been looking forward to this?"

"What the fuck do you mean? Cap, drop the act and talk to me, what's going on? How are you—"

Again he's cut off. This time it's by sudden yelling from behind him, and all at once people rush out from the treeline, while Price takes his aim off him.

Not to direct it behind him, but to the man nearly in the river. Ghost moves without thinking, with a speed he hasn't used in months, out of pure instinct and complete irrationality: he throws himself between the man and his risen captain, the one man he would follow blindly into hell itself.

Distantly, in the split seconds between inaction and a pulled trigger, Ghost still expects someone to yell 'cut'. Expects the man under him to sit up and swipe a finger through the blood to taste it, corn syrup and food colouring. Expects the gun to go off with nothing more than a pop and a puff of smoke.

But the sound deafens him, and real, searing pain bursts through his shoulder and out, and he only just manages to keep from crushing the wounded actor under his weight when he falls over beside him.

A sadistic, vengeful smile on Price's face is the last thing Ghost sees before the boot to his face, and he welcomes the pain blooming red-hot and wet on his face just before he's out; he'll wake up from this fevered nightmare.

۝

28 November 2023

Ghost wakes up at his alarm like each day this past week, goes for a run the same route and length as he always does, comes back to his room for a shower and a shave. He doesn't need to think to do it, but it's not just his mind that's blank. He doesn't see anything staring back at him in the mirror, doesn't feel the water on his skin or the burn in his muscles, no hunger or rumbling stomach to alert him of it.

Eats out of habit, because he always does, and stares at the empty space in front of him in the mess hall.

No one talks to him, and Ghost talks to no one.

Back in his room, he undresses slowly, looking at the uniform laid out on his bed. A week is a long time to keep a man from his rest.

One last journey.

Life goes on, unfathomably.

Ghost stands there for a long time. And after, he stands there for a long time, too.

۝

Unknown

"Dè tha e a’ caitheamh?"

Ghost stumbles back to consciousness through a thorned bramble, and the words sound much the same, raw and spiked, digging into his tenderised skull.

He tries to sit up before he even opens his eyes, and is shoved back onto the hard surface he's lying on — no longer on the river bank, proven correct when he finally manages to see, blurry and out of one eye.

It's dark, but he's inside, not out under the stars. And alive, once again. But aside from that, Ghost has no idea where he is, how long he's been out, or who any of these wankers are. Standing over him are two of them, though Ghost can just make out the shape of another bent over who he presumes is the beaten one. Which means he might be alive, too.

The older of the two says something that Ghost can't make out, in what he assumes is Scottish Gaelic, pressing down on his chest to make his point: stay down.

"Where am I?"

His question is met with two grunts of disapproval, and the man clicks his tongue at him. "Dinnae worry about tha'. What made ye go an take a bullet for a stranger?"

Ghost isn't out of it enough to miss the suspicion in his voice, and wonder what the hell he stumbled into. And he's not sure of the answer. Under normal—or almost any other—circumstances, he wouldn't question Price's reasoning for getting hands on. Though, most of the time, if they're working together, that gets delegated to him. Senseless beatings don't, though Ghost doesn't usually interfere. Fuckers had it coming.

But that, whoever he was, was not Price.

Price has been bloody dead for nearly a year.

"Answer him, man," the younger, though not young, of the two men snaps at him, his long hair falling in messy strands from where it's tied back, the other bald. Both bearded, and both heavily accented when they speak to him in English. "Where did ye come from?"

There's a fire burning in the hearth, the only source of light apart from some candles on a shelf over his head. Increasingly and worryingly, Ghost has no idea. Or, he knows where he came from, but where he ended up is another matter entirely.

A concussion, no explanation at all, but the best he's got right now. People dedicated to whatever game they're playing.

Enough to kill.

This is wrong, none of it makes sense.

"The woods," Ghost finally manages, trying to think through the pounding in his skull, "heard fighting, someone shot at me. Followed him until I came upon that redcoat beating a man to a bloody pulp." His voice croaks from lack of use and water, his throat raw like he swallowed sand, but he adds, honestly, "had to step in."

"Help him drink," the bald man nods to the other, frowning deeply, arms crossed over his chest.

They're both in kilts, Ghost notes, as if that's the strangest thing he's encountered, as if the man on the riverbank wasn't dressed the same. As if there's not an edge of unhinged laughter threatening to bubble up his throat. He's wrong, has to be, but he just saw Price. Alive and in the flesh, him or not.

Definitely not.

He shot Ghost with a fucking flintlock pistol.

He's finally lost his bloody mind, that's the only explanation here.

"Aye, careful lad," as ordered, the other Scot helps Ghost lean up enough to let him drink from a cup — and nearly choke on what can't reasonably be called whisky, but can't be called anything else, either, "tha's it, gets yer blood pumpin'."

He laughs, and the bald one reprimands him over Ghost's head. "We dinnae want his blood pumping, the man's been shot. An' he's bloody lucky it didnae catch anything but meat on the way through."

"Aye. Lucky, tha's one word for it. Ye think the captain really meant to do it, kill Young John?"

Young John has to be the one on the riverbank, but they continue their conversation in Gaelic, and Ghost sits up without getting pushed down at the barest effort this time. He has to have hit his head. Badly, and well before not-Price kicked his lights out.

Carefully, Ghost assesses the damage while the men talk, feeling his face and head for obvious signs of major trauma. His right eye is swollen shut, sloshing and heavy. There might be another fracture hiding under the swelling, but Ghost can't tell for sure one way or another. The fracture in his nose is obvious, and far from his first. It's still attached if throbbing, tender, and hot to the touch. Hard to breathe through, but not impossible. Gunked up with blood on the inside, clots in his throat.

But his face is nothing compared to the bullet wound.

As far as Ghost can tell, going by feeling over sight, it stopped bleeding and someone at least attempted to get a bandage on him. Not stitches, and he doubts it's been cleaned, but he'll get pumped full of antibiotics as soon as he makes it to a hospital.

"He needs a doctor," Ghost interrupts the men when John sits up, too, distracting him from his own injuries. "That arm should've been put back in the socket as soon as you could. How long has it been?"

He doesn't have qualifications like Morova, but Ghost has some medical knowledge beyond basic SAS training, being out on his own often. This, in particular, he knows because it happened to him. Zero warning from the bloke that helped set him right, but an explanation after. That it could've waited five minutes until they weren't being actively shot at is neither here nor there.

"And yer one, are ye?" the younger Scot mocks, raising his eyebrows as if he's in awe. "Let us concern ourselves wi' John, we've no decided that it wasnae you who did tha' to him."

Ghost squints back, struggling to see the logic there. Fair, if he hadn't caught a fucking bullet for the lad.

"That's no —" the bald one shakes his head at the stupidity, thankfully, and instead of pointing it out, addresses Ghost, "we've tried, but it wouldnae go. We'll get him sorted once we're home. Speaking of, we best be going."

"I'll check how the horses are. We might need to stop underway, these aren't used to harder work, clearly."

Horses.

Not his problem.

"Mind telling me where the fuck you took me?" Ghost's head isn't cooperating, he can't make any bloody sense of what's going on, and he drinks some more of the foul whisky to at least get some fluids back into his body.

Either these people are insane or — traditionalist, refusing to drop the act.

The bald one turns to him while the other makes a face and heads out into the night — fuck, he was out for a long time. "Let's start with yer name, lad. And how ye, big English stock that ye are, ended up here, scuffling wi' one of yer own, dressed like this."

Ghost looks down at himself, and notes not for the first time but with more confusion that he's only in his joggers and shoes, since whoever bandaged him up must've cut his long-sleeve off.

This isn't an interrogation, but it seems it could become one all too soon. On the other side of the room, the man with John casts them a look over his shoulder, unsubtle about listening in.

"Simon Riley. I was just out for fresh air when I heard sounds of a fight. One of the redcoats took a bloody shot at me, unprovoked. Dropped his weapon and ran like a coward when I came at him for answers. Which led me to where you found me."

Even hurt, Ghost could take these two if it comes to a fight, though the bald one has seen more than his fair share of them, obvious on no more than a glance. The one that went outside, too, but the younger bloke wouldn't pose a challenge even with his head swimming like it is. And lacking depth perception.

Ghost still thinks he could win against all three, but he's not dumb enough to bet on it right now, not if he can resolve whatever the problem is by talking. Surely they'll see that he's just a bloody tourist and doesn't have anything to do with whatever weird history club they've got going on here.

Surely.

He knows better than to count on the reason of the insane, but a fight can follow.

The Scot—the leader—raises a grey eyebrow at him, taking the mug and refilling it before handing it over. To ply him, but Ghost takes another swallow of the stuff.

"Dougal MacKenzie," they don't shake hands, "ye've met Murtagh. And Young John, in a way I suppose," he nods over to the other two men, but John is lying down again, the other still keeping an ear on the conversation, but not an eye, "an' that's Calan. He's one o' your sort, but we like him anyway."

Dougal pours himself a drink, too, and assesses him over the cup when he drinks. He opens his mouth on something else when John groans out in pain, and their heads snap over at the same time.

Calan, a young man with loose and chin length blond hair, has his arm firmly grasped, trying to shove it back into the socket from the wrong angle entirely.

"Fuckin' hell, you're gonna break him. Let me," Ghost is off the table before he's done speaking, and ignores how the room spins around him to walk over.

Dougal lets him—and Ghost is under no illusion of who's in charge here, at least over these men, but for now possibly including himself—and Calan steps aside with a roll of his eyes.

"You're the one that said it needs to go back in, I was only trying to help him," he complains, the first time he speaks. Accented too, but as Dougal said, from south of the border. Close, though. "He can't ride like this, and you," this is directed past Ghost, who ignores him and takes his spot beside John, "said we can't stay here much longer."

"Aye, but if ye break his arm we'll be in worse shite, won't we? He's lucky to be breathin', let the man give it a shot," Dougal replies as he joins them around the smaller table, and he nods to Ghost.

On the table, John lies barely conscious, his hair slicked to his forehead by sweat and blood alike, his face — he'll live, is the important part. As long as he's not bleeding internally from the beating rained down on him, hours since it happened and God knows how far from a hospital.

"John…need you to sit up for this, come on. You can do it," Ghost urges him, barely managing to stay upright himself. "Help him, but don't touch that shoulder."

The other two do as they're told, though Dougal's face makes it clear that it's only for the benefit of the man lying here. He's trying on his own, too, blue eyes unfocused, breaths unsteady and thin. Behind Ghost, Murtagh returns from the horses and says something in Gaelic, but Ghost keeps all his attention on John. He has no other option, but for him, it's not the pain that robs him of strength.

"Breathe, it'll feel better in a moment. Or a lot worse," Ghost jokes, deadpan and met by two matching glares, and one blood-sticky grin. "There's a lad. Three, two—"

He pops the joint back into the socket with the last of his waning strength on 'two', grunting but satisfied at the audible click. Instead of the alternative; a sickening crunch and pained screams, usually enough to have the…patient pass out. No longer his life, but Ghost knows torture from both sides, and he knows it well.

"My knight in shining armour," John chuckles before testing his arm, sounding drunk — and smelling it, too. "It doesnae hurt any more. Yer bleedin', though."

"It will," Ghost warns him, ignoring the latter part and looking around for something in here to act as a sling, working off adrenaline and instinct. "Find some fabric or bandages. He needs to keep it immobilised before you go into town, get it looked at."

It's Murtagh who hands him some rags. "What town? We're miles from anywhere, lad."

Ghost keeps working on the sling while his sluggish brain parses what he said. They're not near Inverness any more, that much is clear. Which means he has a long way to go before getting back to Darragh. He'll be out looking for him by now. A pretty damn good tracker, too, but there won't be any tracks to find until Ghost made it to the cairns, running on roads the whole time before, and he'll have little reason to go look there out of every other place they've visited on their stay.

He will, because he's smart and will work his way back from where he last saw him. Somehow finding signs of a fight at the river and, Ghost presumes, having no memory of it, horse tracks to follow…less likely. After all, why the fuck would Ghost be on a horse?

He's ignoring the unease in his belly.

The wrongness.

The vague notion that even if Darragh was headed to the cairns, and through the grove turned forest, and to the riverbank, he'd find nothing. Because the grove was not a forest. And somehow, Ghost was not there today.

Not Darragh's today.

It's insane, and he refuses to believe in the complete fucking bollocks his mind cooked up. Definitely a concussion in the best case, losing his grip.

Getting back might take a while. Especially in this state, but he's managed to find his way under worse circumstances, and sooner or later, he'll run into someone or some place that can at least help him make a phone call.

It won't be any of these people, that much is beyond clear. The hut they're in doesn't even have any lamps that they're just refusing to use. And if anything was enough to get them to drop the act, he'd think one of their getting beaten to a pulp and nearly executed would do the trick quite nicely.

While he works on the sling and thinks, too frantic and unhinged for his training, the group talks amongst themselves in Gaelic. All of them except for John, who watches him with unclear eyes.

"Yer the one that stopped him," he suddenly says, softly as if he's only talking to himself, "saved my arse, ye did. An' yer still bleeding."

So not just to himself. John's eyes leave his hands—and bandaged shoulder—for his face, and Ghost, so used to combat even if this is nothing at all alike, remembers he's not wearing his mask. Everyone can see him as well as he can see them, Young John included. How young, or old, he actually is, Ghost can't tell by his face. That soldier did a number on him, though it's more blood than swelling. A cut on his chin.

"I'll be fine. It went through, I'll get antibiotics at the nearest town," Ghost murmurs back, and nudges him to move his arm over his chest, "hold here, let's see if this works," he wraps the sling around the man's neck in a near-embrace, trying to keep steady in the spinning hut, and guides him to put his arm through. "There. Keep it like tha' for about a week, it'll hurt worse tomorrow, likely the day after."

Ghost pauses, assessing his work and the beaten Scot, Price's laconic smile a spectre haunting his memory. Not Price, but him in face and name. It makes no sense, but none of this does. He'll wake up soon, or they'll pull the plug.

If so, he won't get to say goodbye. Didn't even scribble a note. Wasn't supposed to be gone more than an hour.

It doesn't matter, not if he's already as good as gone and only filling static with whatever this is meant to represent. He'd really like to say goodbye, if staying isn't an option.

He looks down at the ring, his engagement ring, and — he hasn't lost it, but the stone is gone.

The world.

All that's left is the hollow silver where it was set, and the two small figures clasp their arms around nothing but the void.

It's just a gem, but the loss stabs into his heart to combine with the irrational fear that he's right, that they're not just miles apart. That the other half of his heart is years away.

Centuries. He's wrong. Fuckin' get it together.

"Dinnae fash," the young Scot picks up on whatever has to be on his face, plain as day, "it's a day's ride, thereabouts. Wilnae be long until ye see your lass again."

Ghost doesn't correct him, and doesn't get anything past his lips before Dougal pats John's shoulder. "Up ye go. High time that we get the bloody hell out of here. You'll ride together, blind leading the stinkin' blind. Just follow us, and dinnae get any ideas. We all need rest, no need ta make things hard for yerself."

He can't fucking mean what Ghost thinks he means. "I'm not going with you."

"Easy way or the hard way, lad, and yer in no state for the hard way. Turning up in yer skins and catchin' musket balls. We'll get things sorted out, an' you'll be on yer way."

"I'm in no mood," Murtagh adds, hand on his — on his sword, because of course there's swords, too. "Calan, get the man his shirt."

The threat would be funny any other time, and still is, him standing a head below Ghost and ten years his senior, and that's aside from Ghost's training and skill set. And while he may be a stubborn bastard, he's no idiot, most of the time.

Three armed and uninjured men against him, shaky from blood loss and struggling to see straight or keep from puking up nothing but the whisky they gave him from his concussion, not to mention the gunshot wound or his swollen shut-eye, he stands little chance. It's against his every instinct to go with them, but a day's ride by horse won't be more than a few hours by car.

He just has to believe that cars still exist.

Calan hands him his long-sleeve while Douglas and Murtagh help their — friend, maybe. They settle him onto his feet, and John hardly looks like he knows where he is, let alone knows how to use them.

"Simon, you best be dressing now."

The threat doesn't need to be added, and Ghost pulls the soaked thing over his head. At least they didn't cut it off him like he assumed, and while he is bleeding through his bandages, it's a slow seep. He'll live. Most likely, he'll live.

A short ride, and then either an escape or an agreement. Home to Darragh after.

He's not sure why, but making his way outside, Ghost is almost surprised to actually find horses. But what catches his attention more than anything else, including their surroundings, is the sky.

It's not that he's never seen it this bright, the night. But it takes being somewhere much more remote than this for there to be this little light pollution. Unless they are, and Ghost guesses that's not impossible, struggling to put all the pieces of intel he has in order for a proper timeline. He's making excuses with the concussion.

At least fighting his way out won't be an issue once he's rested a bit.

Once he's not the only one unarmed, going up against three men with swords, which he doesn't doubt are real. They've got pistols, too, but one shot shouldn't be impossible to evade, if he's lucky. If he's less sluggish than he is right now.

Somehow, despite the severe beating, John seems to be feeling better now that his arm is back in the socket, though he sways into Ghost slightly while the others untie the horses. This is really happening.

"You'll ride together," Dougal repeats, bringing a large draft horse over, "take Rourke, I'll ride Apple. Up ye go, lad." He helps John onto the mount, which waits docile and patient for him to settle in the saddle. "And ye behind him, go on."

The man offers Ghost his cupped hands to heave him on, with the stirrups in use by John, and Ghost doubts that Dougal can take his weight, but he can't use his full strength to haul himself up on the horse's back. With a grunt and their combined effort, he settles behind the shorter man, and Dougal hands him the reins.

"I'll have no funny business. Tha' horse listens to me, ye try anything and I'll have him stopped at a word, ye can walk behind us then."

Ghost nods down at him, docile as the horse. "No trouble. I just want to get home."

"Aye, and ye will. Soon enough," he nods back, firm and almost friendly, an act Ghost doesn't buy for a moment.

The others mount up, too, and John sighs in his arms. "Jus' let him follow, I'll guide his pace. He kens where we're going. And dinnae mind Dougal too much. He's protective, 's all."

With a click of the man's tongue, the group sets off, and Ghost still expects that he'll wake up sometime soon. Either on his back in that cairn, staring up at the sky, or in bed with his love, with tangled hair in his nose and mouth and the smell of breakfast floating up from Maud's kitchen.

That, or with a last gasp and screeching tires, a sudden end his mind tried to put off.

۝

Hours later, shivering in the frigid autumn air, it still hasn't happened. He's glad to steal a bit of warmth from the man now leaning fully into him, half asleep in the saddle and heavy.

Ghost's own exhaustion creeps up in shaking arms and quivering thighs from the endless effort to stay seated and hold John up. They've largely avoided roads, and the brief periods where Dougal did lead them down one, they've been nothing but worn tracks in the dirt. No asphalt, nothing paved or cobbled. No street lights, or any lights at all.

He has to be wrong.

Around him, alternating which of them rides beside them and which beside Dougal, the three men speak occasionally, quietly, and entirely in Gaelic. None of them look to be related, but there's a clear hierarchy between them. Dougal the leader, Murtagh—with observant and nearly black beady eyes, watching him and keeping an eye on John—below him. Calan, English like himself despite also wearing a kilt, is younger by what has to be near thirty years, and likely ranks below John, whose own age is impossible to tell at the moment.

It's too small a group to account for the noise of the fight Ghost heard, but he knows better than to pry for information from men who already mistrust him. Instead, he keeps an eye out for any distinguishable landmark to tell him where he is and where they're going. Darragh and he saw a lot of Scotland and some of the highlands during their trip, but mostly on the east and southern sides of the country so far. And mostly by day.

All the hills and rock outcroppings they pass look the same to him, and Ghost has the distinct feeling that they're avoiding anything more notable on purpose.

They stop at a river, dawn in the air but not breaking through the sky yet, nearly everything around him grey but for the hint of lilac above them, and the bright blue of John's eyes as he stirs awake and looks over his shoulder.

He winces at how sore it must be, or any of his bruises from the assault, and his voice croaks when he speaks. "Nae a bad pillow, stranger. Doubt I woulda stayed on without ye."

Ghost snorts, at the same time as their horse does, like it both understands him and thinks the same thing Ghost does.

"You've three others here. I'm not here out of goodwill."

"Aye, I know. That seems to be the problem," John whispers his reply conspiratorially, with too much amusement for a man in his state.

Then again, it's not him who got shot.

Ghost doesn't regret it, but his shoulder throbs with pain, as does his face, his skull, each step of the horse sloshing the swelling of his nose and eye around. For that, and the break in trying to keep them both from falling off, he's relieved they're stopping. Short as it may be.

He doesn't say anything else while nudging John to lean forward a little more, handing him the reins. Dismounting — he'd say takes considerable effort, but if nothing else, he can count on gravity to still work the same as it always has. And luckily, his legs don't buckle out from underneath him.

Ghost's aren't partially bare like John's, but without his body heat and with his own exhaustion, his teeth chatter from how cold he is. It's not what might kill him, but in his current state, it's more than just unpleasant. Worrying with the amount of blood he lost.

He holds out a hand to help John down, and it feels very much like Dougal said: the blind leading the blind, with John's right arm and shoulder out of commission, and Ghost fighting through the pain in his left. At least John has full use of his vision, his face not too swollen but cut up like the other Price wore a ring while beating him — Ghost glances down at his own, and shoves the pain of missing him.

Both of them, differently. He'll see Darragh soon enough. It's too melodramatic to let himself think otherwise, that the missing stone is all too fitting, that his world is gone. Or rather, that Ghost is the one who's gone from it. He's just lost.

"From yer lass?" John asks him, and Ghost nods for lack of any better explanation. "Told ye, it won't be long. Cannae tell me she's never been without ye before."

Ghost hums, but doesn't reply. All he needs is a landmark or a road, the sun will help him with the rest. This isn't real. He wonders for how long denial will be the best solution, but knows it won't be more than a few hours. If that.

The others have dismounted too, talking among themselves before Murtagh motions them to bring the horse to the river to drink.

It could even be the same bloody river, and Ghost would have no clue. In vain, he strains his ears for that strange buzzing from the cairns, but even if they're close, they wouldn't be close enough to hear it. The thought is beyond inane, but sits heavy in his stomach. What else could've caused this? Beyond the obvious, that he's experiencing some kind of psychosis, or asleep, or about to die a painful death.

At least his shoulder stopped bleeding, or he's so cold that he doesn't feel it.

"Christ, yer whiter than a ghost," John comments while they walk to the river, "fitting I suppose. The veil might still be thin today, just dinnae go crossing over without letting me pay ye back."

Ghost glances at him out of the corner of his working eye. "Best way to do that is put in a word with your boss."

He crouches to cup his hands in the water, washing off the remaining blood — whose, he can't say and doesn't care much about. John follows him down, doing the same one-handed, cleaning the sticky dried blood from his face and his split open chin without wincing or making a sound. But looking like he's about to say something while Ghost drinks from his cupped hands and pretends to ignore him.

He's not trying to be friends with the man, and right now he's not even sure that he would've saved his life if these are the consequences.

Price, even this wrong and out of place version of him, must have had his reasons. It wasn't Price, though.

He's reaching the end of his denial here. Finally, now that he's able to think a bit more clearly, despite the increased pain and his exhaustion. The water helps somewhat, and Ghost tries to ignore it all for keeping his head to deal with the situation at hand. He can figure the rest out later, when he's free. 

Because he may not be tied up or shackled, but he's a captive for now, unquestionably.

Ghost stands slowly after drinking his fill, and turns to walk away from John, have a few spare moments to himself and start thinking of what he'll say when these men inevitably want more in depth answers. Instead, he nearly walks into Calan, hovering nearby like Ghost meant to drown his — whatever the group is to each other in the river and steal the horse. Which, not the worst idea, seeing as the other two are back to talking among themselves and paying him no mind.

"Watch yourself," the bloke snaps at him, and it takes considerable effort not to react to him like he's a fresh-faced private back on base, thinking himself tough enough to ignore Ghost's reputation.

"Couldn't bloody see you," he huffs instead of telling him he's too little to be acting so big, not true except in comparison to himself and the leader here.

Murtagh is no small man either—nor is John, though he is the shortest of them—but the blonde before him isn't just the youngest. It's easy to recognise his attempt for what it is, and Ghost can let him have the sense of superiority. The more they trust him, the easier it'll be to either slip away soon, or be let go once they make it to wherever the fuck they're heading.

They're all tired, that much is obvious even in the dark and unable to understand what they're saying most of the time, but Ghost remains the one at a disadvantage. More than one, but there's no need to feel sorry for himself. What he needs is a solid plan, or an opportunity to make use of. Rest can wait.

He pushes past Calan only to get beckoned over by Dougal, and goes with measured obedience.

"Here, eat something. We've a ways to go, and I'll not have ye starve on the road. Or," and he holds the piece of cured meat up like bait for a dog, "ye tell me the truth of it now. What were ye doing in those woods, lad?"

Dougal makes a point to look at his clothes, though in Ghost's opinion the only thing that's notable is the blood on them. Noting them from — whichever point in history they might be, or at least resolutely pretending to be, in their case, he does look out of place. Redcoat and highlanders…any time before the 1800s, he'd guess. Before the last rebellion, even.

"Told you. I was out, I heard fighting, and nearly got shot. Take me back to where you found me or let me go, and you'll never see me again," he vows, jaw set on his words and the growing pain, spreading from his wound and settling in his bones, cold sweat running down his spine.

"Aye. That's what I'm afraid of," Dougal doesn't hide his disapproval of the answer, but presses the meat into his hand, "Christ, yer freezing. Were ye out wi' a lass, that's why ye won't tell me? Protecting her honour?"

It's a trap, though it would explain his apparent state of undress; agreeing now would only make him look eager for a way out, and not help his chances if they do send someone to go ask about him in town. If he's right, the Inverness he knows, and the people with it, won't be there. Not in its current form, at least.

And Darragh. Fuck, he has to be wrong.

"No. I was alone. Didn't think I'd see anyone out there," he replies honestly, only now remembering the druids and their dance, Maud and Nora…did they know?

If so, why? And why — not now. Later, but not now. He can't risk being deemed raving mad along with whatever else they suspect him off. Even though he probably is. Something cracked.

"Very well. Eat, get your strength up."

Dougal leaves him without another word, bringing his—John's—horse over to the river for some water as well. Ghost sits down on a fallen log not far from the others, and does as he's told. The food, little of it as it is, sits heavy in his stomach, the first thing he's eaten in thirty-six hours. And possibly two hundred years plus in the future.

No, he's lost it fully. There's no other answer here. Somehow the holiday and engagement and drink combined with the upcoming anniversary of Price's death and his bloody guilt have pushed him over the edge. Most likely of all, he's tied down into a chair in some institution, drooling and staring vacantly ahead while thinking this is his reality. Probably dreamt up the entire trip. Maybe more. Someone who saw him and liked him anyway.

Maybe no years passed, and he's still in that hole, slipping away and tasting death, failing to dig out.

No matter what, more and more, it's starting to look like he might not wake up.

Chapter Text

۝

Chapter Five

Ghost startles awake, groaning at the pain in his ankle and the bloody tosser who kicked him there.

"Up, we're riding on," he informs Ghost with barely a glance over his shoulder, already turning back to rejoin the group.

For the briefest of moments, from nothing more than their similar size and hair colour, even if Calan’s is lighter and shorter, Ghost thought it was Darragh standing over him. Thought they were in some faraway land, sleeping on sand. But he remembers all too well how he got here, and, much less clearly, how he thinks he got here.

He should've used the break to think up a fitting, believable, story, not to fall asleep. Especially not so bloody unguarded that he didn't notice someone approaching. But his head feels marginally better, though his nose is still stuffy and thick, his eye still swollen shut. And he's shivering again, relentlessly, while hot with a fever. Signs of infection. At least paired with the hot, throbbing pain in his shoulder. 

Somehow, despite feeding him, Ghost doubts his hosts will care much—or know what he means—if he tells them he needs a hospital. Antibiotics. 

It's not much later, he's fairly sure, soft pinks and purples mixing with orange-tinged clouds in the sky. His watch is stuck at twelve o'clock precisely. That's a sign of dreaming, clocks not working. Either a bad one or a good one, he hasn't decided.

Stiffly and slowly, he stands up to go willingly where the group takes him. It's his best shot for now, and Ghost is nothing if not a patient man. 

"Thought ye might've passed on just sittin' there," Dougal laughs, helping John back onto his horse.

"Not sure I didn't," Ghost replies evenly, unbothered by this, trying to be unbothered about everything else while there's nothing much he can do about it.

Fight or run. He could. But he can see his odds clearly, and they’re not in his favour. Worth it if dying hadn’t become something to avoid, however loosely. 

"Here," Murtagh presses a flask into his hands, "have a wee nip, get what's left o' yer blood pumping again. We'll not stop until we make it."

A day's ride, minus whatever is behind them, there's no way he'll make it through the rest without another stop at least, and even then. Infection can move fast, but it's the fatigue that'll get him first. 

Ghost nods, and sips the offered whisky. "I need a doctor. You'll get no answers from a dead man."

"Aye, and we have one. Just hold on tightly to our wee John, an' we'll get you sorted proper-like. Ye survived being shot, lad, dinnae die sitting around now."

Sound logic. Ghost tries to hand him the flask, but Murtagh waves him off. "Keep it, ye need it more than me, an' that's saying something."

The others laugh at that, and Ghost tucks it into his pocket — an action that gets him a scrunched nose from the man as if he's stuffing it into his bloody pants, but he supposes to them, he is. This coming from a man who doesn't even bloody wear pants under that thing.

It's Dougal who helps him back onto the horse behind John, sitting straighter and steadier than when they left that hut somewhere last night. Ghost tries to take the reins again, but John pushes his hand away.

"I can manage. Easier this way, promise I won't fall asleep on ye again," he glances over his shoulder, "grab on then, Christ. Yer gonna fall off if ye dinnae."

Ghost shifts so he can grab the back end of the saddle, not in any way trying to be polite, just practical. If he does fall off, he'd take John right down with him by holding on to him.

Not that he cares particularly much; the man seems to be doing a lot better after sleeping for half the journey. 

John makes a noise at him, or at the horse — it's unclear, and he's not paying much attention to anything but his body, as if willing himself hard enough might stave off the fever. Willpower can do a lot, beyond anything most people would assume possible, but it can't do that. But keeping himself breathing and keeping his heart slow and steady might buy him enough time. It's far too bloody soon to give up and crawl into a hole to die. He shouldn't have followed that soldier, and he shouldn't have put himself between the business end of Price's gun and a stranger.

Shouldn't have ignored the warning, the luring of the cairn. It called to him, much as it was clear he needed to stay away.

Ghost did well following orders. Knew he couldn't trust himself to know right from wrong until Price showed him there's little difference, only means to an end. 

It's just about what end you're willing to die for.

۝

Rain started drizzling down in a damp sheet an hour ago, and Ghost's teeth won't stop chattering. He reckons it's about midday, and the group ate while riding but Ghost couldn't stomach anything, even knowing he needs his strength.

No landmarks, no towns, no roads, and no other people. 

Nothing but the occasional talk in Gaelic, and the few times John tried to make conversation with him. He's tired again. Ghost can feel his thighs shaking like his own, can feel him slump and correct himself over and over, listens to each hitched breath of pain when Rourke jostles them a little rougher or when they need to speed up to stay with the others. Pained and toughing it out the best he can. 

"Yer shivering something mad," John notes after a shudder of his own, and he tilts his head back slightly to look at Ghost, trusting the horse to walk steady, "hold on to me, would ye? Keep us both aloft."

"Take us both down, you mean," Ghost replies for the first time since they set off, prying his not cold but frozen fingers from the saddle to settle on John's hips.

It's a small comfort, and one he shouldn't allow himself for the chance that he'll lose focus when he's not using everything he has to stay semi-aware of his surroundings and in his body. But John feels warm and more solid than Ghost does, and he gave him the excuse of needing some help, too.

"Here, tighter," John murmurs, using the only hand he's got to work with to pull Ghost's from his hip to around his waist. "Warm ye up a bit."

And he does, as Ghost shifts his other arm to wrap around him with both, his breath shallow when he rests his forehead on John's good shoulder. He's still shivering, but his teeth finally quiet, and John leans back into his hold.

A small comfort… He's so warm.

Ghost isn't sure if he falls asleep or not, or how the fuck they manage to stay on the horse together like this, stacked like trying to build a house of cards and somehow finding the perfect balance to keep them both up, John leaned back, and him pitched forward. Whatever else this man is to him—Price's victim or victory, a mistake, his end, his means to a different one—right now he's a lifeline. He keeps Ghost grounded and more at ease than he should be. Just awake enough to do his part in their mutual transference of motion, back and forth like the sea, the ebb and flow of the tides.

Most importantly, he keeps Ghost on the bloody horse.

They don't speak, he thinks, but they might. He's not sure whose voice he hears and whose he responds to, what they're saying or if he replies at all. This isn't his training and he should know better, he's been through worse, but he's so tired. He's so tired and he's alone, when he hasn't been alone in years. Not like this.

And somewhere in his mind, muddled and clutching John tighter to stay awake, he thinks he should've let John die. Unquestioning of Price's reasons, whatever they were, and followed him, wherever he went.

If he's even alive.

He's not, not his Price, but it was him. Like seeing a ghost, it was him. Wrong on every level, so bloody easy to tell in the brief interaction, but that's what makes it easy to think that he's wrong, too. That he chose the wrong side. That his instincts were off, and Price was the way back again. 

Ghost breathes deeply, as much as it feels like he can, though the bullet came nowhere close to his lungs, and smells — blood, most of all. Most, but far from everything. He smells damp soil and the rain, the leather of the saddle and the animal below, his own sweat and John's, as though there's a notable difference anywhere but in his mind. But he smells grass and whisky and hay, too. Damp wool and a hint of gunpowder. Both familiar, though no part of his gear was made from wool.

His dress uniform was.

He doubts that John knows he's sniffing him — not him, just anything available to him, trying to ground himself in new and familiar both. Easier than lifting his head for more of the same sights, or trying to talk when he has nothing to say. Thoughts nothing but a jumble, unmoored like his body. 

So he breathes, even and measured, each one in and each one out with purpose. Trees and earth and the occasional horse shit, and John. The reason he's here, drifting—and it feels like drifting—ever further from where he needs to be. 

If he believes.

Darragh likes it when he smells him, pretending not to. Tries to shove Ghost away or closer, getting all pink for him, leaky and breathless. Ghost misses him, and the usual litany of having been apart for longer doesn't quite apply. Less than two days, and more than two hundred years.

If he's right.

He's no believer, but Ghost prays that he's wrong, that it's just one of those dreams that feel like a year or a lifetime, and he'll wake up no more than an arm's length away. Tangled hair and morning breath, slow blinks and soft kisses.

Any minute now.

"Stay wi' me," John murmurs over the babbling stream they're following, somehow picking on Ghost's fading strength. "We're getting close. Just hold on to me, aye?"

Ghost almost laughs or almost cries, but does neither in the end, nodding against his shoulder. He's been through worse, been injured and tortured to points where he felt nothing but white-hot and all encompassing pain, awake for days and weeks on hours of sleep, starved until eating his hair just to stop the pain in his stomach. This is nothing close, and he needs to keep it together. Falling apart under the truth of things is pointless when he might not live to deal with it.

"What did the hen say to the horse?" John interrupts his thoughts, leaning back a little to further get Ghost's attention.

"What?" he asks flatly, not just asking for the answer to John's joke, but also expressing his somewhat stunned disbelief that he's joking at all.

"Hey."

It takes him a moment for the double meaning to sink in, and it's not even funny, a chicken saying 'hay', but Ghost snorts despite himself and the awful attempt. "That's it. I can feel ye shaking an' I'll pretend it's mirth."

"Terrible. That's the best you've got?"

John huffs at him, undeterred and pressing back just a hint more. "Just easing ye into it, wouldn't want to cause more undue harm now, would I?"

"Alright, how do you fight a man without arms?" Ghost shifts, and finally raises his forehead off John's shoulder.

John thinks it over with a small hum before he admits defeat. "Go on…"

"Unarmed."

A beat, a bark of laughter, and then a pained wheeze as John settles in his arms again.

"Not bad, I'll give ye that. But only because I'm feeling generous, mind," John turns to glance at him, as much as he really can while they're pressed this closely together, a strange sort of intimacy that usually only comes from fighting side by side with men Ghost won't call brothers. "Sin grànda…"

"What? I'm no grandad," Ghost replies, confused — he's older than the bloke, that much he can tell clearly now, but by his estimation he has to be around ten years younger than the next oldest in the group, Murtagh looking to be in his late forties.

Which, admittedly, is plenty old to have both kids and grandkids.

John chuckles softly, shaking his head and damp, loosely curling hair. "No, I didnae reckon ye were. Means ugly, yer mug all broken and swollen up. They should've cut ye when it was loose, let the blood out."

It would've been nice to see properly, that's for damn sure. Ghost can't blame them for not caring, though, and they did at least attempt to patch up the gunshot wound. It's the least you'd do for a prisoner, though it's not as if this is war. Ghost doesn't know what they could possibly suspect him of, but reason seems to be in short supply across the board.

"Good thing I'm not trying to win any prizes," he mumbles back, suddenly feeling his fatigue return heavy in his bones and aching muscles, "beauty or otherwise."

"Aye, last place without a doubt."

They fall into silence again, riding along through the familiar and strange landscape of the Highlands. They're heading west, but that's all Ghost can make out. It's a start, for when he's able to make his way back to Inverness.

Nature tells him nothing and Ghost knows little, but he knows better than to ask outright. Not a single sound of an engine in the distance. No road signs. No power lines that he's seen. Not a plane in the sky. 

Dreaming or cracked his head on a windscreen. Bloody mad.

Eventually, by the time the sky turns darker again from a setting sun that hardly showed all day, Dougal calls out from his position in the lead, now riding in a line over a thin trail, brushed by outstretched branches like hungry fingers in a town square.

"Nearly there, lads! Home sweet home. Fresh ale and bread, and warm lasses in yer warm bed."

"Not for him," John whispers over his shoulder, "his wife cannae stand the sight of him."

Ghost can't blame her, the man's looks aside. He's been unpleasant, which doesn't bother Ghost itself, but it's clear how stubborn he is, how little he'll listen to reason, and how much he likes the sound of his own voice. 

Qualities that won't help this be resolved easily or quickly, simple as it should be.

Ghost doesn't reply, cold and sweating, barely awake, trying to keep his head clear. Half-drunk on top of it all, a necessary evil to stay warm beyond where he plastered himself to John's back, a trembling mess himself. They shared the flask between them, and a larger bottle later on, reluctantly handed over by Calan.

They're friends, Ghost thinks, the young blonde and John, eyeing him like he would prefer that Ghost would drop dead and off the horse. No thanks to be had for saving John, no benefit of the doubt. Bigger things to worry about than Calan's opinion, but he can't discount it entirely, either. Not if he holds sway with their leader.

All of it moot if they don't make good on the promise of a doctor.

Not a minute later, they emerge from the edge of the forest, cresting a hill. The open field that lies before them leads to the banks of a lake, but more than that, a wide and long bridge. 

And there, atop a small island no more than double its size, sits a castle. 

Not the ruins of one, and not a restoration with space for a large car park—and a dirt road is all that leads to the bridge—and no windswept tourists posing for photos with their friends or family.

They're too far to see them clearly, if they are there, but the few figures Ghost can make out, little more than specks moving from this distance, don't seem to be wearing bright windbreakers or shorts too late into the season.

"Fleòdradh Castle," John informs him, nearly resting his head on Ghost's shoulder and weary with exhaustion. "Means floating, ye ken. Home of the MacKenzies, the laird's my uncle. So's Dougal."

That makes sense, more than the other reason Dougal would have for the way he looks at the lad. They're not family by blood spilled, but by blood shared. If John's a Mackenzie, Murtagh likely is, too. It doesn't matter for anything but some intel to hold onto, to stop from feeling as lost as he is.

Dougal spurs his horse into a trot, followed by Murtagh, and Rourke—not John—speeds up to follow him down the hill. Calan brings up the rear at first, but this close to home seems satisfied to leave them to it. Or, Ghost realises as he gallops past their leader, always rides out ahead.

He squeezes John tighter for a moment, relieved despite everything to have made it here.

"Aye, me too," he replies as if reading Ghost's mind despite the small hitch of pain in his voice, "just hold on and we'll get ye sorted an' fed, promise. We're nearly there."

Renewed hope, and false as it may turn out to be, it's welcome, too.

The castle looms larger and larger on their approach. If Ghost were in any state of mind to really look, he'd note at least some of it beyond the bridge or their path into the courtyard, the towers or how old it is even now. It's not one—the ruins of one—he visited with Darragh, and Ghost wishes almost feverishly that he was here to see it with him. Darragh likes a good castle. 

He doesn't see where Calan is, or care much, but Dougal and Murtagh dismount and hand the reins to some stable boys, and Dougal is off without another word or look their way. It's Murtagh who stays to help them down, looking sour. And damp, like them and the whole castle itself.

"Yer first, big lad, off ye come. Give old Rourke a rest," he holds his hand out for Ghost to take, and it takes considerably more effort than it should to finally let go of the stranger he's been clinging to for hours now.

His strength nearly fails him when he takes Murtagh's hand, pain shooting through his shoulder as he uses it for the first time since resettling on the horse. Since they stopped awkwardly passing a bottle back and forth, and all he had the power to do was hold on and leech John's heat. Give him some of his own, shivering with fever.

But Ghost makes it off the horse and to his feet — and as he looks up to see if John's alright, his vision blurs, spins, and goes black as night.

۝

He comes to with the taste of blood on his tongue, and bites down harder to keep himself quiet. The pain eases a moment later, down to a throbbing pulse of it instead of searing through his bones, and Ghost sucks in a breath as he opens his eyes — his eye, the other still swollen shut.

"They missed a piece," a man he hasn't seen before tells him, waving a clamp in his face and grinning from behind it, "could still die, mind. Ye dinnae look too well, tha's fer sure."

"Thanks," Ghost manages, trying to sit up, and shoved down again for the effort, a repeat of how he woke up — yesterday, he thinks.

"Not yet, man! I'll no have ye walking out of here with the last of yer blood spilling out. Miss Rosie would beat me senseless for letting ye muck up the floors," the man, the castle's doctor, Ghost assumes, motions to someone he can't see, "the poor lass is struggling enough as is, dinnae make things harder for her. Stay down."

Ghost stays down.

He grits his teeth against the new flare of pain as the doctor pours whisky into his wound and sets to cleaning him up, the exit wound on this side much bigger than the entry on his back, though he can't see much of it. He's been shot before, often enough, but not by a flintlock pistol. Not this close range, either, though Ghost is intimately familiar with the damage it can cause. With much worse, too.

It's not long before the doctor has him sit up to work on his back, and John comes into view to help keep him steady, apparently having been here the entire time. He looks exhausted and in pain, but he holds Ghost's good shoulder with his good hand, solid and sure. It feels a bit like he's holding himself up, too. Just as they rode, except face to face and much less close. Still smells the same, blood and leather, musky. Warm. 

"Not dead yet, are ye?" John asks with something close to a smile, adjusting to step between Ghost's legs to make it easier on them both.

Instinctively, Ghost grabs hold of his waist. "Not quite. How long was I out?"

"Not long. Some of the lads got you in here quick as they could, Doc wasnae doing anything else, or ye might've been waiting a long, long time," he shoots a look past Ghost at the man in question as he says it, pointed enough to tell a story Ghost doesn't care much to hear, even if the familiarity of his voice helps him stay awake.

"Did you get looked at?"

John shakes his head, squeezing Ghost's shoulder. "Guests go first. An' I'm no the one with a bullet in my shoulder, slowly bleedin' out, am I? What were ye thinking?"

He wasn't. And truth be told, it's not something Ghost would've done if he was, not for anyone but the team and Darragh.

The doctor replies before Ghost can. "I'm asking myself the same thing…who'd go an' save yer poor excuse for a hide?" Joking or not, he pauses while starting the bandage—this one, belatedly, much cleaner than the last, but over whatever the man smeared into the wounds—and handing it to John to wrap around. "Which I'm sure is why Dougal wants a word wi' ye, lad. Both of ye, likely. Ye ken well enough how he feels about the English, the man makes no secret of tha'."

Ghost keeps holding on to John's waist, him having let go off his shoulder to help. That's what he assumed, too. It wasn't his biggest concern out of all of this, but if he lives, it has to be for now. Appeasing whatever suspicion or doubts Dougal has so he can leave, deal with — Christ, all of this mess, somehow. 

Play along with the act. Impossible to face the facts.

"Think he's a bit strange even for a Sassenach," John comments as if he's not here, but with a look to Ghost that's too amused for his tired and beaten face.

"Aye, but we've got yer lad here wi' no trouble, and he's a strange one as well."

Calan, Ghost guesses and files away the knowledge that apparently he's with them on John's merit. That could be good for him, since John seems to be the only one who's not too wary of him, and Dougal's nephew besides.

"All done," the doctor says as he comes around to inspect his work. "I'll have Miss Rosie bring ye some broth and garlic tea. Reckon ye might live, if yer particularly lucky. Name's Graham Beaton, most call me Doc or Doc Gray. Now lie down so I can have a look at wee John here."

There's nothing 'wee' about the man—though Ghost can't compare him to himself—but John grins at being called it. "Aye, keep saying that and one day, surely, folks'll forget who the wee one is."

Ghost can still recognise a dick joke in his state, but since it's not his, all he does is as he's told. Unwilling to need it, but glad for the relief of no longer needing to keep himself up. Or needing John for it. 

He watches as Graham takes John by the elbow to sit on a stool by the window, but they talk too quietly to make out much of what they're saying. Sounds like Gaelic, besides. 

Instead, Ghost takes his surroundings in through his working eye, trying not to think too much of Darragh. Not now, not here. He'd already lost the eye when they met, and Ghost won't lose his, but they joked about it whenever it came up. Spotting some animal missing one, or a kid with a plaster over it, or a teddy that had one pulled off, Ghost would always point and say 'that's you'. Deadpan and very amused with himself. If he was late to notice, Darragh would say some shite like 'can't believe you didn't recognise me' and it was dumb, but it was them. 

It is them, just.

Apart for now, not forever. He'll find a way. 

Wake up.

The room they're in is below ground level, slightly damp and cool, with the windows about halfway up the walls and showing — not much that Ghost can make out from on his back on the table, ivy clinging to the walls outside. It doesn't look much like a doctor's office, even one he'd imagine for whatever time period this is. Or is supposed to resemble.

Ghost looks around for something he might use as a weapon, if he needs one later, in case this might be the only place he'll see. Underneath the pretence of calling him a guest, he's well aware that he'd be stopped if he tried to walk out of here.

And injured with no clue where he is, that's not the plan for now.

There are some tools, like the clamps Graham used to retrieve the bit of bullet from his shoulder and what's clearly a bone saw, other things more suited to butchery or carpentry. Any of which will do as a weapon, though none have much range. Without a gun himself, he'll need to get in close and avoid their swords. Stealth would be his best bet regardless, but short of finding a sword himself, one of the knives here will have to do in a pinch. 

His consciousness wanes, attention shifting to the men by the window as he tries to cling to it. 

John's halfway undressed now, still sitting on the stool and obediently letting Doc Gray — Ghost almost snorts at how similar it sounds to his ex-teammate, called Doc as well, being a combat medic. Ray. Short for nothing in his case, and nothing alike Graham, either. This man is taller and older, grey haired and bearded, something gentle in his face that he'd never find on Morova's. They got along alright, friendly enough at times, not really mates. Ghost does occasionally miss him, just because he misses the others and the life. His life, and Price, who gave it to him.

Mourning a man he should've saved seemed wrong, and so did moving on, and so did trying to ignore it. No mercy in any of it. None he deserves, either. 

John groans when the doctor prods at his face, presumably checking for breaks, and they lock eyes across the room a moment before Ghost's slip shut. He's awake still, barely, listening to the tones of their words as they speak in Gaelic, but even if it were English and loud enough, Ghost wouldn't take much in.

"Enough of that," Graham is suddenly right by his head and Ghost doesn't startle, but it's closer than it should be, "I dinnae ken where they sleep in England, but here we sleep in beds. Up ye go now."

To his credit, he helps Ghost sit up when it takes him longer than he'd like to admit with the room refusing to steady. There's no sign of John, and Ghost wonders how long he slept for. If he did. No sun means no way to tell, and he doesn't bother looking at his broken watch for an answer it won't give him. Was he ever here or — Ghost still feels his hands, phantom and warm. 

"My shirt?"

"Sorry, lad. I'm sure Miss Rosie can find you something suitable to wear, soon as you're settled in," Graham casts a pointed look at the remains of his sweatshirt in a torn pile on the floor as he tugs Ghost's good arm over his shoulder to support him — and only to the door, where he's handed over to two men Ghost hasn't met yet. "There ye go. Keep an eye on that shoulder, and take anything Miss Rosie puts in front of ye. That an' rest is about all we can do now."

Ghost doesn't get a chance to say much before he's hauled off through the narrow passages and hallways, sometimes needing to pass lengthwise to fit. He could manage to walk on his own just fine, if slowly, but that's clearly not the only reason these men are here. They're guards, more than anything else, and the guise of helping him is thin at best. 

He loses track of where they take him, up some stairs and down some others, without the sun shining inside through any of the corridor windows to tell him east from west. By the time they leave him in one of the castle's seemingly numerous rooms, Ghost can't deny that he's almost glad for their help. Almost.

They don't stay to guard his door, which means little but enough at the same time. 

For now, knowing better and feeling guilty for the decision to rest, Ghost notes the intel but not the various things it means. There's a fire burning in the small hearth, but he slowly makes his way to the window, back to unceasing shivers and chattering teeth, only dressed from the waist down. His joggers and trainers are soggy from sweat, rain, and mud, as is the rest of him. More mud, together with blood, is caked under his nails and itching in his buzzed hair, and for a moment he allows himself to fully feel how miserable he is.

And shoves it down and away, because dwelling on it won't help.

He's been through worse, much worse if he doesn't count what he keeps trying not to think about, what he should refuse to accept as a possibility, much less as his current reality. And even then, even if it's true and he hasn't lost his bloody mind, Darragh is alive. In a way.

In the future.

The windows of his room look out over the lake on the west side of the castle, another island or curve of the land, he can't tell, on the other side. Thickly wooded, thicker than the direction they came from, but it's dusk as well. Hard to make out anything of use, at least for now. 

The room itself isn't massive, and Ghost guesses on the first floor. Even that is difficult to tell with the various stairs they took to get here and the doctor's room being half underground and half not. But it's got a bed piled high with thick blankets, a trunk for clothes he doesn't own, and chairs by the fire. A cupboard with a basin to wash by, too, though it's empty when Ghost walks closer to wash his hands or risk drinking the water, parched and starving. Nauseous. 

Just as he's about to admit momentary defeat and crawl into bed, the door opens after barely a knock, and a girl that can't be older than twenty walks in, another, younger one in tow with a tray.

"There ye are, I asked them to send word. As if I dinnae have anything else to do," she greets him, directing the girl to set the tray down on the low table by the fire. "Come here, dear, let's get you fed — och, and washed, yer positively filthy."

Ghost could do with the broth she brought, steam curling over it to lure him closer, smelling like the best thing he'll ever have the pleasure to drink, but he's tired of new faces and thick accents and pretending to play along. And still, tired or not, he's not about to snap at some girl who's only trying to help him.

Tempting as it is. Some sleep is all he needs. A new day in a familiar place. Not here.

"My, yer a bigger lad standing up," she continues when Ghost joins her at the fire, ignoring and used to the fearful stare of the other girl, not that rare even without his mask. "Sit down, will ye, so I dinnae have to strain my neck. I'm Rosie, Rosie MacArthur. My ma, rest her soul, ran this house before me, and didnae think to stay on a little longer to spare me, if ye can believe it."

MacArthur. They're a fair distance from Inverness, and a relation is no guarantee, but the resemblance is there, young as he is compared to Maud. 

"Simon," he offers, sitting down and trying not to linger on it. 

"Aye, they said yer an Englishman," she sits down on the other chair, and waves her assistant off, who leaves without another word and all but runs for the door. 

Vaguely, Ghost is aware of the risk she's taking, staying here with him by herself, at least in her mind — or he's doing worse than he thought, and deemed no threat at all. He's not, of course, not to her. Maybe the others thinking the same of him can be an advantage. 

"They've also said," she leans in a bit, the pale ginger curls escaping her bonnet shining in the fire light, "that ye saved Young John's life. Took a bullet for him, ye did."

Her eyes drop to the bandage, then back to his face, properly taking him in now that she's not distracted by his size, and Ghost doesn't confirm. He's thinking back to Price, clean-shaven and long-haired, the sadistic pleasure on his face. 

Distorting memory or not, by now, Ghost doubts he meant to kill the man. He saw where he punched John, how he stayed away from his heart and skull if not his face. He was drawing it out, inflicting pain and damage without killing him, and the bullet likely wasn't meant for his head.

A last act of cruelty. He's putting a lot on a few bruises—a lot of bruises, Ghost heard how he wheezed for air, saw him red and purple—but he also knows torture, and how to draw it out. It's not how he would go about it, there was too much emotion in it, but that doesn't change what he saw on and from both of them. Why, he has no idea. But it's heart versus mind that tells him Price must have had a reason.

And for the first time since all it went down, he considers what he couldn't allow himself to even gleam before. Wrong man or not, real or not. 

"Did they kill him? The man who tried to shoot John?"

It's not his Price, no matter what, it can't be. But he wears his name and his face, and Ghost doesn't want to hear the answer to his question.

"I'm afraid I've no heard," Rosie replies gingerly, handing him the broth, "drink, it'll warm ye. I think—if the whispers are true—I would've, though. The captain's not looked kindly upon, ye ken. Ask me, if he were dead, there'd surely be a wee celebration."

Ghost cups his hands around the bowl and relishes its heat and scent before drinking, considering her words. If he's alive, there's a chance that he'll see him again, however small. This Price is not the one to say sorry to, to beg for forgiveness from, he's not the right one or even his ghost. But he's alive here.

If anything, this should be proof that Ghost lost his mind.

He doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing. He drinks the broth, and Rosie regards him just as silently now, despite just telling him how busy she is. A spy, perhaps, or just interested, preparing gossip. He couldn't care less. Too many conflicting thoughts run through his brain, and worst of all is the recurring one that he should be better than this, with his training, his control, his experience. He can't have turned this bloody soft in a few months.

Feeling sorry for himself won't do him any good, but some self-flagellation might get his head right.

"Drink the tea, too. It won't taste good, I'll warn ye," Rosie says a little while later, maybe just happy for a break, "but it'll help with the fever. The bread for strength. I'll leave ye be for now, but there's more candles in the cupboard, and in the morning I'll come by wi' some proper clothes and to help ye wash. Aye," she smiles, holding her hand up to stop a protest Ghost hasn't voiced yet, but must have shown on his face, "not me. What do ye take me for?"

Her tone is light and jesting, and Ghost allows himself a smile. "I'd never suggest it. Thank you, Miss."

Ghost ignores the slight flush on her cheeks and allows it could be the fire, not how she almost imperceptibly glances down his half-naked body. He's used to that, too. Not a boast, really, just — he's big and strong, and for people not into chiselled abs, that's sometimes enough. He knows what he looks like, and knows that to most people, he looks like danger. Scarred and ugly, built to fight.

"Och, call me Rosie if yer gonna be a charmer," she replies as she stands from her chair, smoothing her skirts and apron, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, "sleep well, Mister?"

"Riley," Ghost replies, realising he never gave her his last name, dismissive and distracted.

"Like O'Reilly?"

"Hm, distantly. Little Irish remains, far as I know," he explains, probably poorly with the sudden shift in time period — this is something he has to think about more thoroughly, and might've just messed up by telling her. "Just Simon, please."

"Simon," Rosie agrees or tests, letting the intricacies of his family history lie, "good night. Ye missed quite a feast, the lot of ye. Should've chosen a better time to get shot, ye should." She smiles at him, and pats his arm lightly, but takes her hand back quickly. "Yer burning up! Drink that tea, and then off to bed with ye, rest will help. Besides, tomorrow ye might be able to use that eye again. If ye dinnae die, tha' is."

"Appreciate the optimism," Ghost replies dryly; she's the second person that's at least halfway banking on his death, and that's only of the ones who've said so to his face.

"Any time, Mister," Rosie smiles again, and leaves him to his thoughts.

Thoughts he'll put off for a little while longer, pulled between the instinct to analyse and plan, and the instinct to sip his broth, curl up, and die. Neither is helpful, he needs the rational middle road, the only one he usually follows when he's left to his own devices. Not currently, that much is fucking clear, but usually.

He can—though he shouldn't—allow himself the break of his mental break, the one semi-solid excuse he'd have for his lack of focus and escape. If it wasn't for the fact that he's supposed to be unbreakable. It's the whole bloody point of him; being able to take anything and everything without a peep.

Ghost picks up the chunk of bread they brought him with his otherwise liquid meal, and dips it into the broth. All very clearly fully homemade, not from a can they got down at the supermarket and turned over into a pot. It's possible, but improbable. The scale of their historic re-enactment would be massive, though he can't discount it.

No, costumes and food and lack of modern amenities or infrastructure aside, what he stays stuck on isn't the castle or the kilts. It's Price, either alive and playing along, inexplicably, or truly the wrong one in the wrong time. 

Not all that deep down, Ghost can admit which it is. He has been, preemptively or not.

Answers are unlikely to come from this place, asking questions or not. Little of them, anyway. If he's right—and he's aware that he'll stop quantifying his thoughts sooner rather than later—the wheres, whens, and hows are things he'll need to figure out on his own. The when might seem innocent enough not to warrant much attention, but he still needs to come up with a better explanation for turning up in the woods in his underwear, talking to Price as if he knows him, and jumping in front of a bullet for a man he doesn't.

Ghost's head fucking hurts. But the broth is good, the fire warm, and the bed quietly calls his name. The tea decidedly less so, but Ghost downs it anyway, disbelieving but hoping that it'll help. If nothing else, it's unlikely to kill him.

He needs a bloody fag.

And, by sheer dumb fucking luck or pure laziness on the part of his not-quite captors, he finds his pack still in his pocket. 

It's hardly the most anachronistic thing about him, but Ghost still vows to keep it better hidden with its printed warning signs, the graphic picture of throat cancer. His lighter is probably a bigger issue, some glow in the dark piece of shite he bought at a petrol station, bright neon. 

Convenient, which was all that mattered, but best kept to himself.

He lights one, and suddenly hot instead of shivering like a dying stray, stands up to see about opening one of the windows. It takes more effort than it should, but Ghost gets the latticed window to swing open, and he leans half in and half over the windowsill at the relief of cool, crisp autumn air.

Making it down from here wouldn't be too much of a challenge if it weren't for his shoulder, but even wounded, he should be able to get there — he'd live, in any case. The problem is what would come after. While the castle isn't walled off, there is only one way to leave the island, unless he takes to the water.

Which is an option, but he'd prefer to steal a horse for his getaway.

Ghost smokes slowly, allowing himself to leave better formed plans for when he knows more, his head too unclear to think properly. For all he knows, Dougal or whoever the head of this castle is, will let him go with nothing but well wishes and a thanks for saving their nephew. Ghost wonders if he'll see him again, but cares more about the chance to find Price on his way back to Inverness.

Or maybe he'll go to sleep and wake up in the guest house, back to freshly engaged, his love in his arms, and the dream will fade to nothing but vague memories by the time he's up to brush his teeth.

He savours the last few drags of his fag and decides at the last moment against flicking it outside. Instead, he grinds it out on the stone windowsill, and tosses it into the fire after closing the window. 

The smell of burning plastic from the filter doesn't linger long. The idea that it’ll be an exceptionally rare one, does.

No matter how fatigued he is, actually going to bed isn't appealing. He needs to rest, but this feels like being on a solo op and in too deep, no overwatch to radio, no backup to call, and no way to watch his own back. He'd go without sleep until he got somewhere safe, until he got control of the situation and knew where he stood, what his plan was, or how to follow someone else's to get what he needs.

Ghost reminds himself that he is safe, more or less. These people aren't done with him, but they patched him up instead of killing him outright, and there's no intel to torture out of him. Nothing at stake but his freedom, and if he had it, he wouldn't be able to make use of it currently.

With his thoughts turning more chaotic and less rational, Ghost finally drinks the last dregs of the garlic tea and ignores the memory of sitting across from Maud while she studied the leaves. How little there was in his future, everything in the past.

Her fear.

And she let them go to the bonfires at the cairns as if she didn't know, as if she wasn't planning to be there at dawn for whatever ritual that was. Ghost can't blame her for something he still hopes isn't real, and it's not like she made him go in. But it's difficult not to make the connection.

If she does know, maybe she told Darragh. Which means he could be here. Wherever the bleeding hell 'here' is. He wouldn't wait for Ghost to return, he'd come find him. 

Fuck.

Ghost's only comfort is that he'll be better prepared if Maud told him. But unless he runs into Price as well, he'll have no idea where to start his search. And neither does Ghost if he can't figure out where the highlanders took him.

Maybe Darragh will be rational and wait for him, or just plain refuse to believe. Ghost wouldn't hesitate a second, believing or not. Without anything else to go on, he'd try it in a heartbeat. No harm. 

Too many angles to consider, and none that give him anything to work with right now. Step one needs to be rest so he's ready to think and fight. Step two is finding out where—and when—he is. The rest will follow, whether by circumstance or from carefully laid plans. Anything.

With a sigh, Ghost crosses the room to the bed, a four-poster made from plain wood, though without any curtains to help keep the heat in. Not that he'll need the help, shivering as he is. He takes off the only things he's still wearing; his trainers, socks, joggers, and briefs. 

All of it ranges from damp to soaked and he walks back on freezing feet to put it by the fire to dry. 

His cigarettes, Ghost takes and hides in one of the cupboard’s drawers, all the way in the back and well behind a row of candles. His clothes—or the state he was dressed in, in their eyes—stand out enough. So do his tattoos. No one’s said anything. 

He hasn't tried much to get them to stop pretending.

Why hasn't he tried harder? Mostly because it doesn't matter if they are or aren't, what he needs is to find his way back to Inverness, no matter what. He'll know for sure, then. 

Ghost knows what he saw, or didn't see, on the way here. How everyone dresses, the lack of light pollution, not one hint of electricity, modern roads or civilisation. The weapons, how his wounds were treated, the dubious tools and medicine.

And the wrong Price.

Ghost ignores the stab of pain at remembering the brief moment of believing it could be him somehow, against everything he knows to be true. He hasn't earned that, but neither did Price deserve to die. It's not about deserving it or not, Ghost knows better than anyone. But it should've been him. Living with that hasn't been easy, shoved down whenever he could. Always, just not always as effectively as it needs to be.

If he were better at it, he wouldn't be here at all.

If he's right.

He crawls into bed naked and shivering, his thoughts dancing gracelessly, morphing into unrecognisable shapes, frantic and chanting. Each and all of them as impossible to understand as the Gaelic spoken around him, and the ancient song sung around the cairn's standing stones. 

It doesn't feel like sleep will come quickly—or at all—no matter how much he needs it. Too on edge and too aware of how deep into enemy territory he is.

Which isn't true, or is more true than he's able to see past a circle of blue eyes glancing at him before they fade into the mist. Surrounded, Ghost sinks into the bed and through it, past it, down and down and down into the cold black earth, in his mouth and nose and ears, under his nails, scrambling fingers searching for purchase on anything at all.

Any way out.

۝

13 September 2007

"There you are, lad. There you are. Deep breaths, deep as you can."

The man steadies him with a hand on his shoulder as more soldiers rush their way but continue past them, and he presses a water bottle into bleeding hands.

Simon drops the jawbone, but pushes the bottle aside. "How long?"

"Too long," he answers plainly, eyebrows knitted tight, mouth a thin line.

Days or hours or minutes, it makes no difference. Not now. They're gone, and so is he.

It's just that the burial didn't take.

"C'mon" the man pats his shoulder lightly while his gaze is anything but, "work to do."

Chapter Text

۝

Chapter Six

Unknown

Ghost stretches under the warm blankets and quilts, not quite surfacing from the depths of his dreams but searching out a familiar shape to pull close, to ignore the whined protest of, to kiss in the blind, whichever part he reaches. Searches out the scent of him on instinct, sleep-sweaty musk and Irish Spring soap because he thinks it's funny. Not the metal and gunpowder and muck he was used to, before. Rank, both of them, all of them, and just as good when it meant stolen moments and sweet, desperate gasps, beard burn on his face under his mask. Just for them.

Distracting, but never too much.

All his search earns him is a sharp jab of pain and a cold spot beside him, not the warm body he tries to find.

Slowly, with dawning realisation, Ghost opens his eye to the room he went to sleep in late last night. Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, but not in the MacArthurs' and far from Inverness. At least on foot or horse.

He's unlikely to find a car.

Or Darragh.

For now. Shouldn't jump to conclusions. 

Ghost hasn't sat up yet, but assesses his body limb by limb, flexing his toes and his fingers, noting that he's got a chub from sleep. Not to play with, but as a good sign. And he's hot underneath the blankets, but not feverish like last night, nor is he shivering despite it.

Hungry and tired but clear-headed, he breathes slowly in, slowly out, and pushes the blankets from his shoulders as he sits up in the bleakly lit room. Not even embers remain in the hearth, and cold air surges to greet him, brushing the sweat off his skin with icy fingers.

And it seems that everything will circle his thoughts back to Darragh. Fuck.

He gets up to see if what remains of his clothes dried, but whether they have or haven't, it's not as if he's got another option. Aside from wrapping himself up in one of the blankets, which isn't altogether unappealing in this cold. He almost laughs out loud at the attempt being mistaken for some grave insult to copy their kilts—all that wool wrapped around in ways Ghost can't make sense of—and dooming him to whatever bad fate awaits. 

Whoever he is, John's other uncle here has preemptively left a bad impression with a brother like Dougal.

Caution, Ghost understands. Suspecting him of being a spy or someone that could prove dangerous since he could, even if he isn't. A spy, that is, but the same goes for dangerous right now. 

He's not much of anything except for lost.

Ghost has no idea how long he really slept, but he slept deep and seems to have beaten the worst of his fever. Yesterday he wasn't sure—doubted, by the end—that he'd make it through the week, but today looks brighter in that regard. 

Far from all bloody well, grateful for the fighting chance.

Outside, a weak sun shines to cast a shadow of the castle onto the island and into the lake, which shimmers in the faint light beyond it. And again, his mind helpfully supplies that Darragh would love to see this place. Man loves a good castle. 

When Ghost turns from the window to get dressed, the door to his room opens without so much as a knock.

"Do you mind?" he snaps, doing a bad job of covering his dick and balls with his hands. 

The young lad that entered at least has the decency to keep his eyes up while looking ashamed of himself.

"I'm sorry, mister. I thought ye'd still be sleeping, day ye had," he closes the door behind himself with his foot because he has his hands full, "Miss Rosie sent me up wi' something that might fit ye, and to help ye wash."

"No need for that, I can wash myself," Ghost frowns, put off by the idea of some kid playing his servant.

"Aye, I can see that. I mean - um, yer looking well, is all. She said ye were near death last night, almost a spirit already," the youth offers him a toothy grin, and Ghost does nearly smile back. Not at him, but the irony. "I'll just -"

He can't quite make the motion he tries to, but indicates his head to the basin behind Ghost. Ghost disregards his dignity to help him out with all he's carrying. He takes the boots and clothes from him, which mercifully don't include a kilt, and places them on the bed. 

The boy—another ginger, and soft featured like Rosie, but Ghost can't tell if there's any relation—remarks on it with another grin as he sets the water down.

"No plaids for us regular lads, though it'd be easier to fit one of those on ye," he pauses, not looking Ghost up and down but pointedly so, "I'm Edward, by the way. Ed, they call me, or Eddie if it please ye. Rosie's my sister, she is. People like to make jokes, sayin' we'd look the same if I put on a skirt," he seems to realise he's giving Ghost the opportunity, and frowns at himself, "dinnae start…it'll be bad enough when I swear my oaths."

Ghost has no idea what that means, but nods at the kid anyway. "Thanks for the clothes. If that's all…"

"Aye, aye, ye must be freezin' yer bollocks right off, sorry. Rambling runs in the family, ye ken," he points over to Ghost's other clothes, already stepping past him, "let me take that to be…washed. Is this what they wear in England?"

He doesn't look like he'd buy it if Ghost said yes, but Ghost hums anyway, feigning ignorance or indifference. It's a bigger wonder no one's said anything about his tattoos, though a fair few might pass as something copied from the Vikings — since they were. 

Not his sleeve, but Ghost guesses no one paid it too much attention. Ugly old thing it is, still meaning to black it out and remove the constant reminder. Make it into another, his arm like a mourning band. 

Edward looks dubious of him, but nods as he gathers the clothes and Ghost's trainers. "Right, right. I'm off, then. When yer done, breakfast's still on in the great hall. Ye ken how to get there?"

Ghost barely knows which area of the castle he finds himself in, and recalls nothing of the way he got here other than the two guards that half-carried him to this room, despite trying his best to remember each hallway and corridor. 

He shakes his head, still naked, which he's not bothered by per se and even used to, just not under these circumstances.

"Not a bloody clue, mate," he says out loud after a beat where Edward doesn't seem sure what to do about that, as if getting him washed and dressed were as far as his instructions went.

"Right. Right, I'll wait outside then, escort ye over. Trust me, it won't take long to learn the way — or it will," Edward corrects himself, barely more subtle than fake-coughing to clear his throat and buy some time, "very intricate, ye ken. No hope of understanding without years of experience."

"Smooth. I won't be long," he replies solemnly, playing along for some fucking reason when he has no reason to.

Good graces might be important, but some random servant lad hardly figures into that. Word does travel fast in this place, though. Best behaviour until he knows exactly what the problem is. And what he'll need to do to get away from here. 

Edward leaves him with something close to a bow—or a mockery of one, Ghost isn't entirely sure—and Ghost has a closer look at the clothes. A big linen shirt, breeches, long woollen socks, a vest Ghost doubts will fit him, and a jacket that might, as long as he won't move much. A piece of fabric he guesses to be a neckerchief, a belt, and a pair of boots round it out, and Ghost almost casts a wishful look to the door where his joggers and trainers disappeared with Edward. None of it looks practical, but at least he'll be dressed and doing a better job of blending in.

If any of it besides the shirt fits him.

He does need a fucking shower first. Lacking one, the water, bar of soap, and rag Edward brought him will have to do. Ghost doesn't bother pouring the water over into the basin, but wets the rag to wash off yesterday's filth he didn't leave in bed. He's careful with his bandages and hindered by the pain, but lucky that he caught the bullet in his left shoulder — he could've just not caught it. 

He doesn't play the noble hero, that's not Ghost's role. If he'd minded his own business, he'd be back in his own time by now. Maybe.

Inane as the concept is, jumping to conclusions as he still might be, whether it's a dream or not, by now Ghost has to admit he's not in the world he comes from. Whatever the explanation is, and however he'll go about solving it, he's not where he belongs. 

That's what he knows, the rest will come.

He finishes washing himself with the provided bar of soap, but has to leave his morning stubble. He doesn't know shite about history or Scotland, but he can make do without the wonders of modern civilization, even if he's been living a life of luxury for the past few months. If camping and sleeping in a cramped car count. With his smelly partner.

He'll find his way back to Darragh soon. Somehow, at any cost, he'll find him. No other end in sight. 

Ghost dresses in the clothes Rosie found for him, and was right to assume the vest wouldn't fit. The rest of it does, though the breeches are a little short even for breeches, and the jacket is so tight in the shoulders that he might burst the seams with too much movement. Most importantly now that his own shoes aren't an option, the boots fit him fine. They're almost knee-high and thoroughly worn in, quite comfortable.

He doesn't have a mirror to check if he looks as idiotic as he feels, but Edward's face is enough to tell him when he opens the door to be escorted through the castle.

"Where's yer vest?" he asks as they head down the corridor, glancing over his shoulder for another look and badly hiding his amusement.

"You’re lucky this fits or I'd go eat naked,” Ghost warns, still intimidating enough for Edward to wipe the grin off his face.

"Aye, yer a big lad, ye are. I'll tell my sister to find ye something else, we might still have some of grand uncle's clothes stuffed away. He wasnae tall like ye, but he was round. Reckon someone might take those in a bit, dress ye proper like. Unless the laird an' his brother like the sight of ye…could end up bein' like Calan," he finally pauses for a breath when they reach a spiral staircase, and Ghost hums to show that he was listening.

He wasn't, not quite, but the corridor did not prove to be more interesting or informative. One thing Ghost knows: he does not plan to end up being like Calan. He doesn't care about the clothes that much, either. A day's ride, they said—if he remembers right—and it was night, or at least late evening, when they set out from wherever that hut was. Not too far from the river and the cairns, since three men had to carry two, unless John woke up long before he did. 

Unless they slung him over a horse. Fucking hell, he’s got no way of knowing where they left from. And it wasn't quite night when they arrived here, but the ride was so disjointed and feverish that it might as well have stretched for a week.

Ghost remembers next to nothing. 

And what sticks has little to do with the landscape or route.

It's been months since he was in a situation even close to that, hurt and fighting, the smell of blood and gunpowder in his nose. Sleeping in turns, chatting to stay awake. He wouldn't say that he missed it because missing it means missing him, and Ghost can't let himself get lost in that. But he was never meant for anything else, and the sense memory of tough work and battle — he does miss it, though it's no longer his place. 

Price would be disappointed to see how he handled things, then and now. 

The dead can’t judge, but Ghost feels its weight.

He follows the still-talking kid down some spiral stairs, grazing the cool stone wall with his fingers for balance he needs from his lack of depth perception. The swelling will go  soon enough, or his other eye will adjust. It could be a lot worse, injury wise. Situation wise, things could be a lot better.

"—and I said, well, why don't ye move into the clan side then? He didnae like that very much, I'll tell ye. His own side didnae want him around no more, ye ken, but pretending he doesnae belong there, tha's plain dishonourable," Edward doesn't stop for a second as he leads him on through the castle, "but it's different for some. I'm no' judging as long as yer no cunt about it. My granda on my ma's side, he was a Beaton like Doc, but some bad things happened an' he chose to leave, picked a new name for hisself—"

Ghost tunes him out again, focusing instead on the layout of this place now that his brain isn't rattling around and slow cooking in his skull. Either those guards last night did attempt to confuse him, or he was in worse shape than he thought he was; it doesn't seem too complicated in the light of day. Which may have something to do with it, but not enough. 

He's used to working in the dark.

The excuses he makes to himself will run out at some point. Maybe he needs them. What he needs more, is to do better. Be rational, cold and calculated. Turn off that edge of panic that keeps stroking up his spine to tell him how doomed he is. More and better intel, and then a plan.

And a fucking fag after breakfast, if he gets the chance.

When they make it to the great hall, it's all but deserted, and serving maids are busy clearing the last cups and plates from the long tables.

"Ah, we're a wee bit late. Let's go to the kitchen, Rosie will be there anyway," Edward elbows him to follow, "can show her ye need some bigger clothes while we're at it. And what the hell these are. Where'd ye get this? And yer markings…weren't ye supposed to be English?"

Ghost grunts. Then answers out loud as they head for wherever the kitchen is. "I am."

"Oh. A sailor, then?"

"No."

"…Alright," Edward looks momentarily dejected at his lack of elaboration, but quickly recovers, "ye must be hungry, gone to bed without a proper supper. We'll get ye sorted - won't we, Rosie?"

He spots his sister the second they step into the bustling kitchen—halfway below ground like the doctor's office, as much as it can be called one—and doesn't physically tug Ghost over to her, but it's a near thing.

"Och, aye, I thought I'd be seeing ye here," she greets them, and points Ghost to a table, "sit down there, I'll get ye some bread and ale, or d'ye prefer porridge? We've some bacon left, maybe eggs?"

"Porridge, if it's no trouble," Ghost nods, sitting down where she told him.

He's been doing a lot of that, going along with things and telling himself it's the best course of action. True in this case, since it means something to eat — and porridge is far from his favourite, but also best at getting his strength up.

Rosie only has to snap her fingers and point before someone sets a sloshing cup in front of him, and a large bowl follows seconds later, in a flurry of skirts and polite sounding Gaelic. He doesn't waste time with pleasantries past a mumbled "thanks" before digging in, and barely notices that Rosie sits down across from him while her brother leaves them.

He barely notices how bland the porridge is either, suddenly feeling the full scale of his hunger and eating like a starved orphan or mangy stray dog. Halfway through the bowl, which is not long after Rosie sat down, she leans forward.

"Glad to see yer appetite in working order, then. I cannae lie, I thought it a coin toss if ye'd wake up today, looking how ye did. Still a sight for sore eyes, mind. I'll get ye a cut of meat to put on that, and some more garlic tea. Ye'll be right as rain in no time."

Their family resemblance isn't just in their hair and faces, but in the talking, too. Ghost has little to say to that himself, so he nods and sips his ale, finally slowing down a little.

"Two people asking to see ye," Rosie broaches the topic carefully, and he can guess which she means, "first, the laird and his brother, the one ye came with. Wanting to know how ye found yerself in this mess, no doubt. Second's Young John, he waited for ye all through breakfast when he doesnae usually take it here."

That's unexpected. Ghost thought she meant the two men seemingly in charge here, John's uncles, not him. Doesn’t correct her into three. Barely more than a kid.

"He's alright?"

"Och, he will be. He's off to the stables and pasture by now, nowt a complaint from him. I recommend ye go up to the laird first thing. Didnae seem too glad of yer arrival," Rosie informs him while regarding his appearance, "and I wasnae great at measuring by the eye. I'll look for something to alter. Tha mi duilich."

By her tone, Ghost guesses that means 'sorry'. But for a second, he thought she said Tommy. 

"No need," he shakes his head and swallows the rest of his bite, "no plans to stay."

Rosie doesn't outright laugh at him, but she does bite back a smile. "Ye still need clothes that fit, and I didnae see ye bring a trunk over. A day or a week, I’ll get ye sorted, dinnae fash yerself, mister."

A day he can live with, a week would be bad. The sooner he's gone, the better. If it was the cairns and Darragh somehow followed him — 

"Soon as yer done eating, I'll have Jane take you up," Rosie beats him to asking where he needs to go, and Ghost nods, picks up the pace again despite his lack of hunger, thinks harder. 

If he was a spy, he hasn't seen anything he'd consider meaningful to report on, and he wouldn't even think harder on it if they—and mostly Dougal—hadn't acted like there is anything they need to hide from him. 

But this is the Highlands, some time ago. A long time ago. He wouldn't expect anyone here to be overly fond of the English. And he hasn't spared any thought to coming up with a convincing story, partly because he has no idea what they want to hear.

Partly because it's been hard to get in the right mindset—infiltration, information, extraction if necessary—while still reeling from accepting a truth he can't reasonably see as one. It goes against everything he knows, and the switch to taking it at face value and working accordingly hasn't quite flipped. 

"What day is it?" he asks, brushing off her impatience to have at least one answer. 

Rosie blinks at him. "Tuesday. Yer poor heid…looks bad enough as is, but yer confounded, too?"

Best not ask the year outright, but Ghost nods. "Got knocked out for a bit, wasn't sure. Thanks for the meal."

"Aye, of course. Yer a guest, English or not. I best be off, and ye best not keep the laird waiting too long," she smiles apologetically as she stands up, and motions to a young woman cleaning at a different table. "Jane, take him up to the laird, would ye?"

The girl doesn't reply, but she hovers behind him while Ghost eats the last of his porridge and finishes his cup of ale, finally deciding to say as little as possible in the coming conversation. Dougal clearly has his mind made up, his brother likely the same in that case. But they haven't locked him up yet, though Ghost doubts that he could just walk out of the castle and off the island without being stopped.

As long as they don't decide to imprison him for a wrong answer or being unable to soothe their suspicions, he'll be out of here soon. Today, if at all possible. It'll be a long walk without a horse, but it's better than planting his arse or outstaying his welcome.

He follows Jane out of the kitchen, through more servant areas, and eventually back up to the main level. Meek as a lamb, like he has been ever since he woke up in that hut. Jane doesn't talk to him as she leads him onward through multiple hallways, and up again. This time it's a spiral staircase, but not like the small one he came down from his—however temporary—room. Instead, it's as wide as the tower they climb, floor after floor.

Still silent as a mouse otherwise, Jane knocks on a large wooden door when they arrive at the top, and nods to him before departing. The brief reprieve from constant talking was a welcome one, no matter that Ghost tuned both MacArthur siblings out at times, but he can't say it helped him get his head on straight. Not much, at least, and childish as the thought is, he half-hoped that John would greet him here as backup, being the only one of their small party that didn't question his motives. 

Not outwardly, and he was hurt besides. If their positions were reversed, Ghost wouldn't need to tell himself that he shouldn't trust the stranger blindly. So why he does need to tell himself that now, he can't rationalize.

Like almost everything else.

"Enter," a man calls from inside, and Ghost instantly squares his shoulders as if a CO called him to attention.

When he pushes the door open, he's greeted first by chirping birds from a floor to ceiling cage, filled with live trees and plants for them to hide in, big enough for them to fly around. They do, in a crowd of fluttering wings and offended peeps as he closes the door behind himself and walks past them.

The second that greets him is Dougal, standing to the side in the large circular room and nodding wordlessly.

Near the furthest windows, behind a solid, intricately carved desk, sits who Ghost assumes to be the laird of the castle and the lands that surround it. He's older than Dougal is, though not by much based on looks alone, his grey hair tied back the same as most of the men Ghost encountered so far — Ghost sticks out like a sore thumb with his buzz cut. Dougal's smoothly shaved head somehow fits right in.

The man stands up into better light, and he's the splitting image of his brother — and Ghost almost laughs at the thought they've just reversed hair, one bald and bearded and the other clean-shaven but with a full head of it. He's losing his mind, or the infection reached his brain. Excuses, but he doesn't have much else.

"Yer looking well, all things considered," he even sounds the same as Dougal does, though his voice carries in a way that Dougal's doesn't. He sounds like a leader, demanding respect as if it's natural for him to be owed it. "Lachlan MacKenzie, laird of this clan. Sit down, ye must be exhausted."

He motions to one of the chairs as Ghost walks past Dougal, and his hand catches the light. Entirely unmoving — made of bronze. A prosthetic.

Lachlan lays it on the table with a heavy thud when they both sit down as Ghost introduces himself, too. He visibly assesses Ghost for a moment. And another, but Ghost waits patiently, ignoring what he sees out of his peripheral vision: an in-progress letter. It’ll have the date on it. He's not religious, but God-willing he'll have a chance to look at it. Even if he's not sure that he can read it from here with one eye swollen shut.

Maybe he should've claimed that he got kicked so bloody hard he needs help recalling the century. Or what he was doing there.

"So, t'way I heard it, ye saved our Young John's life out there," Lachlan finally speaks, not unkindly and with Ghost still keenly aware that Dougal is now behind him, "as any good man would, fer a lad like tha'. And I'm all the more grateful seein' as he's family, but that's what raised an eyebrow from my brother, ye ken."

Ghost nods, though he's in disagreement about this being a good way to infiltrate. Behind him, some distance away and not moved closer, Dougal grunts his acknowledgement of the statement.

"Was there by chance," Ghost offers, clear he should say something instead of wait longer, "fell asleep after a walk, woke to the sound of a fight. Never heard of him or you before."

Lachlan laughs, short but boisterous. "A walk, he says! All the way over from England, was it? Weren't ye in some undergarments, lad? Now, ye ask me, that's from a tryst wi' a lassie, or ye took them off for another reason, d'ye get my meaning?"

If his meaning is that Ghost took his uniform off to seem more like an unaffiliated random passerby. Which he was, but repeating that won't cut it insofar as convincing them. Not without proof he doesn't have, and pointing out the insanity of catching a bullet—and nearly dying from an infection he's still fighting off—in the vain hope he'd be taken back here does not make a wise course of action.

"Not a tryst," he finally replies, feeling Dougal's eyes burn in the back of his skull, unsure if it's too obvious or the appeal to honour might hold some weight, "we're engaged."

Lachlan seems to consider his words, dubiously or not. "Were it no' yer own words that said there wasnae a lass?"

He wishes his head were clearer before, so he could remember exactly what he said to Dougal or the others. It's some defence, but he's not sure how much reason they'll see. Everything points to not much.

Ghost remembers Dougal dangling the same question, though. Admitting it now, stakes the same but bigger for who's asking — it should work. 

"I couldn't - we're unmarried and her father disapproves. I can't blame him, girl like that," Ghost replies, hoping he's right.

They don't have to care about her honour, they just have to buy that Ghost would. And if he's got the time period even vaguely right, it's more than plausible.

"Aye, bonnie, is she?"

For a split second, Ghost thinks that he means her name, that Lachlan somehow made a link between where they encountered him and some random woman he doesn't know, but his tone sinks in just in time; he means pretty. Fuck, Ghost hopes that he means pretty.

"I'm a lucky man," he nods, keeping it vague enough that he might get another warning or clue that he hasn't just admitted to knowing this Bonnie.

"That wee piece ye got there belongs to her, then?" Lachlan prods, indicating the small ring on his pinky finger. "Cannae say I've seen something like tha' before."

Ghost can't say that it's his engagement ring, or that his girl is a man who inherited it from his grandmother and that it's at least a hundred years younger than Lachlan is himself.

"A gift. She's Irish," he offers as explanation — not much of one, but it could be enough for him to brush it off.

It seems to work; Lachlan makes a face like he understands and certainly does not at the same time. One Ghost recognises by feeling. He can't help but think about the times Darragh speaks Irish to him and refuses to translate, keeping up an entire conversation before he's made to relent or shut up. Ghost knows a few words here and there by now, mostly curses, some not.

Getting distracted won't help.

"So, a bit o' fun in the woods away from her da's eyes," Lachlan hums, shooting Dougal a look past Ghost's head, "and ye didnae escort the lass home?"

"No. Told her to stay put where she was safer while I went and looked. Came across that man"—Price—"beating John. I told him to stop, he took offence and pulled his weapon, the others interrupted. And when he turned to shoot, I acted without thinking," Ghost explains the rest of the events, briefly but as true as he can tell it, "woke up hours later and not knowing where I was. Orla won't know what happened or where I am."

He adds the name on the spot; Darragh's sister. A hint of credibility. Maybe.

"Leaving her like tha'…well, I'm sure she found her way back safely," Lachlan's sympathy isn't wholly fake, but Dougal makes a noise behind him to indicate his disbelief. Good cop, bad cop, tale as old as time, apparently. "So ye've said ye came upon Young John by chance."

He doesn't phrase it as a question, and Ghost waits for him to continue after having just explained his side of things. Sparingly, but it's best not to give too many details that he might have to keep track of later. Changing his story from what he said yesterday—or was it the day before?—is one thing, but they'll be looking to catch him in a real lie.

Lachlan straightens up, a coldness in his eyes. "It seemed like ye knew the man, the one assaulting him. So ye see why my brother isnae too keen to trust yer word."

"We barely said two. If you think I let myself get shot to — what, convince you of my innocence? To spy? Didn't ask to get taken here. All I want is to go back."

"Aye, so I'd think, with yer lass supposedly waiting for ye. But wi' no way to verify what ye say is true, I've a different proposal in mind," Lachlan looks past him at Dougal again, and the hair on the back of Ghost's neck rises as he senses the threat without either of them moving a muscle. "One that needs a discussion in private, ye ken. Yer free to move about the castle and grounds, but steer clear of the bridge. I'll send someone to fetch ye after midday."

Whatever it is, it's better than being locked up for his effort, and Ghost nods while he stands up. "Thank you, sir."

Lachlan waves him off with his heavy prosthetic hand, remaining seated himself.

"I hear my nephew wanted a word wi' ye as well. Go and find him, if nothing else, he'll keep ye from gettin' bored."

He'd much rather have some peace and quiet to sort his thoughts and his options, but Ghost nods again, to both of them this time. Fresh air will do him good no matter what. 

On his way out of the large, circular office — at least more like that than a bedroom or sitting room, with its many bookcases and massive desk, Ghost glances down at it.

At the letter resting there, calling to him from the moment he saw it. 

Even upside down and with one operational eye, the date is unmistakable.

3 November 1744

He takes care not to let anything show on his face as he leaves the MacKenzie brothers to discuss what they'll do with him and his unwanted presence, but the proof sinks heavy into Ghost's stomach. As much as it can be called proof, instead of part of the larger game they're playing here. 

Some kind of — he's not sure, large-scale and long term re-enactment, or a living museum, something like that.

Last vestiges of hope and refusing doom. 

Denial won't serve him, and Ghost knows better after the things he saw. But it's just enough for the stubborn and scared part of his brain to latch onto for comfort. Realistically, acceptance is most important. That means he can focus fully on what he believes the solution to be, and how to achieve it. In the maelstrom of his feverish thoughts last night, he had more than a few on getting there.

And on Darragh.

He should make a break for it—he shouldn't, he's not a complete bloody fucking witless cunt—not sit around waiting for two old blokes to decide if they like the look of him. Waiting for word from higher up was a big part of his life before he joined the 141. Less after, moving quick and in the dark, trying not to set off the third world war with their sometimes questionable methods.

Ask him, Ghost'd say they were already in it. Not full scale, not yet, but for all their work, he watched the world get worse day by day and month by month. Human nature. They were doing good, in the bigger picture at least, but never quite enough. Ghost doesn't believe in averting his eyes or sticking his head in the sand, but that's what he did instead of taking up Price's mantle.

He does the maths in his head, flipping back through the years he was alive, his father before him, his grandad before him, then the vague family he doesn't know about, interwoven years and decades all the way back here. 

Two hundred and eighty years. 

If it's all true.

And he doesn't know enough about his own lineage to say where he'd be able to run into another Riley, but he somehow landed right next to Price's ancestor. His own family might still be O'Reilly at this point, or another name altogether, already down in the area of Manchester or still in Ireland. 

If it's the 3rd for Darragh, too, that means he's been gone for two days.

Maud would've told him. She can't know, but she believes in this stuff, so she would've told him. That Ghost didn't leave. That he didn't leave him. Or hurt himself. Darragh would know better, but he'd consider it; he also knows all the rest. Knows him like no other.

Maybe he's here, out there, looking for him.

If he's not, they're separated by nearly three centuries, and he's not alive in this world.  Ghost looks down at his ring and the missing world from it, and his stomach clenches so hard he thinks he might vomit.  Praying man or not, Ghost prays that he waits for him there, and that he's right about the cairn. 

All he has to do is walk back through. That simple.

Ghost reaches the bottom of the tower on legs he pretends aren't trembling, and the people he passes on his way outside are a blur of long skirts and bonnets, kilts and linen shirts, vests and tall socks, more men in kilts. If he wanted to keep up the denial, he'd say they're all extremely dedicated to living so authentically, not a phone in sight and no familiar scent of too much deodorant or artificial perfume to give him a headache. But he steps into the mid-morning fresh air with his heart racing as if he hasn't come to the same conclusion more than once by now. 

As if the letter makes it real and not the sting of a severed connection. 

Ghost doesn't outwardly roll his eyes at himself — his eye, and fucking hell, he cannot keep thinking like Darragh died. Wonders if Darragh's doing the same thing in the future. Present. There. 

This on edge, as rare as it is, Ghost usually goes for a thorough workout or a long run. Disregarding how that ended for him last time, he could go for one now. If it weren't for everything else, he might even have done it.

As things stand—and he stands in the way of a very busy looking kid carrying a bundle of firewood, shooing Ghost aside with a deep and disapproving frown—he takes a breath and grasps for control of himself. Two, three, four. Counted and measured. 

Chest tight in that familiar way, shite he never felt before.

Lying, again. 

Leaving the SAS was the only move he could make, and in a way it was good for him, too. But just as he wasn't the same there, pushing through and forcing it down, he hasn't been quite the same after, either. It's not about his lack of purpose, that was never part of what crushed his trachea in his sleep night after night. He'll find something to do and new people to shoot, since that's all he's ever been good at. 

Most of his skills don't apply to civilian life. Using them wouldn't get him anything but arrested. 

What he misses, and tries to self-impose, is order and routine. Being occupied until there's no room for anything else, suffocating as it can be. Little as he is underneath it all and without the mask. Leaving was a double-edged sword, just as staying was for as long as he did.

And where he finds himself currently, is cut on neither side. He can't tell if he's on the flat part of the blade or pricked on the point before it's thrust into his entrails. Whoever holds it, it isn't Ghost right now. 

He's sweating in his shirt and too-small coat, breathing open-mouthed like a cornered animal deciding between a bite or a bark. With nowhere to run, and just enough brain function to know he can't fight, Ghost forces himself to walk. To move, to assess, to take his surroundings in. When they're — when he was sent out on op, and this was usually before the 141, and bad intel had him crawling out of skin on the way over, this is what he'd do. 

Different ways for different surroundings and goals, but if the ground's shifting under his feet like loosened grave dirt, Ghost packs it tight. 

From where he starts, he can't see the bridge and his only way out, and he knows better than to assume he's not watched, knows not to make a beeline for it when he can’t fight, all odds against him. John wanted to see him, but he can wait a little while longer while Ghost orients himself and regains his self-control.

His sense of self while he's at it. He needs to think straight and clearly, not this past-present jumble, excuses and blame and too close to panic. This isn't Ghost. 

He doesn't remember how he got outside, but notes the well in the courtyard, not centred but off to the side and near the stables — where John might be if he remembers right. Ghost doesn't spot him outside of them, and doesn't go inside to see, either. He heads right, following this side of the castle. Straight ahead is what he thinks is the connecting passage between the keep and what may be the servant's quarters, or guest housing, or anywhere that people sleep.

Ghost can't recall seeing much of anything heading up there last night or coming back this morning, all doors the same as the one to his room and the staircase, but he'll have to explore inside to know what exactly it houses. His room faces west, as does the wall he follows, but looks out over the lake. Ghost can't see it from here, the lake, surrounded by the castle and its deep grey stones, built high and well-kept but clearly much older still than the time he finds himself in.

1744. It's too bizarre to comprehend, and Ghost settles for accepting it, for now. As now. He's already calmer just from having something else to focus on, and continues walking to cross the large courtyard, steady. Steady.

When he reaches the other building, Ghost follows it until he reaches another castle wall, extending outwards in the direction of the bridge and ending in a guard tower well away from it. No way to get inside from here, as far as he can see. He leaves it for now, still aware he's likely being watched, and takes care to somewhat casually cross the courtyard back to the keep, its large tower on the northeast corner providing at least a two-thirds view of the island and its surroundings. Blind in the back, but it'd still make for a good sniper nest.

Not with the weapons available, but if he had his AX50 here, he could do some real damage. Overkill, since there's nothing to shoot at up from up there but trees and water, maybe cattle. Using .50 cal on a cow doesn't leave a lot of meat. Or much of anything but purée. Some American tosser he worked with once grinned and called it 'ordering slurpees' when Ghost asked him what the fuck he thought he was doing. Not the only reason he preferred to work alone, but certainly didn't get him to consider giving that up. Then again, he doubted even Price could.

Ghost stops in his tracks when he spots Rosie, who clearly just spotted him, and beelines her way over through half the courtyard. It hasn't been that long since he made his way down, fifteen or thirty minutes all in all, but he guesses they came to a decision.

"There ye are!" Rosie greets him and presses something wrapped in cloth into his hands, rushed and talking again before he can see what it is. "Yer not on yer way back, are ye? Even so, ye can do me the favour of bringin' this over to John. Young John, I mean," she takes a breath through the avalanche of words to explain herself, but just as soon the rest follows, "there's plenty for ye both, or we'll feed ye up here, whichever pleases ye. Jane did show ye to the tower?"

Ghost nods.

"Good, good. Sometimes I swear she'd forget her heid if it wasnae attached to her neck. Well, off ye go then, get him fed and don't forget to come by the kitchen for garlic tea, set ye right," she smiles at him, finally speaking a little slower, and pats his hand over the food delivery.

"I will," he promises when she purses her lips and keeps her hand firmly on his while waiting for a reply, no matter that he doesn't really buy that the tea cured him.

"Good. Wasnae all that difficult, was it? Give John my regards, please," Rosie doesn't quite bat her lashes, but the sudden slight flush on her cheeks tells Ghost enough, and he nods again.

Young love for Young John. It explains why she seems to like Ghost as well; she thinks he saved her boyfriend, or crush. Definitely a crush, or she wouldn't hesitate like she is, looking like she might want to take it back.

Ghost interrupts her just as she opens her mouth. "Where do I find him?"

"Och, aye, of course ye dinnae ken. Sometimes he's up here, but he mostly works by the main stable and pasture," she explains, relief on her face at Ghost ignoring the moment, "see that path splitting from the way to the bridge? Take that for a bit, but not to the gardens. Ye should see it from there."

She points the way, and Ghost thanks her before somewhat reluctantly setting off. Not in the mood to talk to people, let alone play matchmaker. 

When he reaches the path Rosie indicated, he sees what she means. The castle lies on higher ground, the gardens to his left in the distance, and fields downhill. He follows the path for a bit to get a closer look at the gardens and what seems to be a green house, more leading around the back of the keep that he can't see. But with the path cresting a hill, he sees the stable, too, and a small paddock in which a horse stands as if it's talking back to the tiny figure of a man leaning on the fence.

Above him, the clouds make just enough room to let the sun shine down over the waving brown-green grasses and still blue-green lake beyond them in scattered rays. Ghost watches the figure look up the same as he did, and then to him.

John waves with his left arm, standing up straight like he snaps to attention, evident even from here. He doesn't have the look of a soldier, not close, but their small band seemed enough like Ghost's team. Not his. He shook it like an ill-fitting coat. Or a straightjacket. Like his name, still clinging. 

Ghost raises his free hand with a loose curl of his fingers, and lets his feet and gravity carry him downhill. 

Chapter Text

۝

Chapter Seven

Ghost nearly trips more times than he cares to admit, unable to make out the depth and distance of any upturned dirt or knot of grass, but makes it to flatter ground without tumbling there. With luck, his eye should open by tonight, especially if he stays in the cold. Not that he feels it past his face and fingers, sweating in the too-tight wool coat despite only wearing a loose fitting shirt under it and his neckerchief doing very little to cover for how deeply cut it is. 

At the paddock, John grins on his approach. "I went looking for ye this morning. Said ye were either sleeping like a bairn, or gone dead and stiff. Look pretty alive to me, I must say."

He's bruised all over, at least where Ghost can see; his face, half swollen from the blows and the cut on his chin shining with a fresh forming scab, his chest to where his shirt parts, and his neck is mottled purple in the shape of fingers. Price's fingers.

"Can't say the same for you," Ghost replies, worried for only a second that he might take offence and go make his life harder — but John huffs out a laugh and steps closer.

He almost thumps Ghost on the shoulder before thinking better of it, and lightly pats his arm instead. "Funny for an Englishman, are ye?"

"Know how to rouse a crowd," Ghost deadpans, no idea why he's playing along and yet somewhat fond of the bloke after riding with him for a day, keeping each other awake or letting him rest in turns, sharing warmth. "Miss Rosie asked me to send you her regards, and this."

He holds the cloth package of a meal out for him, but John doesn't take it, a sudden glint in his eye.

"Aye, did she now? Wait here, I'll grab us something to wet our throats," by the slight croak in his, Ghost agrees he needs it, "and ye can fill me in on the finer points o' things."

That's not what Ghost planned on, but John doesn't give him a chance to protest before he's off to the stables. Plans or not, Ghost isn't enough of a tosser to just set the food down and leave. That's a lie, he definitely is. But out of all the people he encountered here so far, John is certainly the most bearable of all. 

Ghost would rather spend some time here in the quiet and fresh air than back in the castle with the lad's uncles, or the rather talkative siblings.

He looks out over the larger field, where a group of horses lazily graze and some younger ones play in darts and leaps. The one here by herself looks out woefully. He walks closer slowly, making a soft soothing noise so he doesn't startle her, and the horse flicks her ear in his direction before turning around.

"Got you locked up by yourself…surely not for too long," Ghost muses at her, knowing little of breeds or horses in general, but getting along with them well enough, "I'll put in a good word for you."

The mare cocks her head almost like a dog would, and Ghost laughs softly, shifting the food to his other hand to hold his right out for her. She's big, strong looking, some kind of draft horse like Dougal's — the one he let John and him share on the way here. But Rourke—if he remembers right—was brown with a black mane, this one is dark grey with a white marking on her face. Not a skull, but Ghost does smile at the similarity of the shape. She approaches him with a small snort and a twitch of her ears, but otherwise calmly, and sniffs his outstretched hand.

Her hot breath ghosts over his fingers, and Ghost waits for her to decide if he's allowed to touch or deemed unworthy — or a threat. She snorts softly, ears pricking up at the same time Ghost's do, but he can't see John out of the corner of his closed eye. And the mare must, but she ignores his presence to nudge her velvety soft nose into Ghost's hand, demanding him to pet her. Ghost strokes her gently, first her nose, then, as she takes a step closer, her jaw and forehead, her strong neck as she leans into his hand.

Moments later, she decides she's had enough and turns to walk back to the other side of the small enclosure, focus shifted back to the other horses.

"She likes ye," John speaks from his left side, some distance away but not for long, and holding a jug when Ghost looks over to him. "That's one of Rourke's daughters, ye remember? Dougal's horse, we rode him."

Something about recalling their journey—or Ghost in general—has an emotion flit over John's face, gone as soon as it appears. Regret, maybe, but not quite, and Ghost admittedly isn't always too good at picking up on them to effortlessly tell. He rarely needs to. He rarely cares to.

"I remember," is all he offers, remembering unclearly and vividly at the same time.

"I don't think we've been properly introduced," John moves past whatever the moment was for him, maybe the same and maybe not, "John Ma—Fraser. Pleased to make yer acquaintance."

He holds up the jug either in greeting or in explanation of why they can't shake hands, as if Ghost wasn't the one who put his other arm back into the socket and told him not to use it. Which he's not, still wearing the same shite sling Ghost made for him.

"Glad to see you've listened," Ghost means that, isn't sure it comes across, and mentally winces at himself because who says something like that and more importantly, why the fuck would he care? "Simon," he moves on too, kicking himself for somehow making this weird, "Riley. I should head back."

"After I just went an' grabbed us some ale? Not to mention saving my life," John grins at him, more disarming than a flash of sharp teeth has any right to be, "sit down wi' me, will ye? I've nought to thank ye with but the pleasure of my company."

Ghost ignores how suggestive that sounds, and once again nods, letting himself obey these people's whims. Docile and easy-going, that may be the best way or the worst way to seem like he's not a threat. He's not, not to them, not unless he needs to be — not now and not yet. And not to him, Ghost can't help but think as John sits down a little away from the paddock and looks up at him expectantly, no matter that he knows better.

If this man stands in his way, if anyone does and Ghost is in any way fit to fight, he won't think twice about whose life he cuts short. Saving him before won't change that.

He sits down close by, finally opening the cloth bundle Rosie gave him to bring here. Bread, cheese, cured meat, and even carefully cradled between bits of hollowed out bread, a few hard-boiled eggs. Rosie put together a considerable meal, and Ghost hides his snort; the way to a man's heart is through his stomach seems to ring true throughout the ages.

"Christ, she must think us half starved," John remarks, bending closer to pick up some nuts, and motioning to the jug he set down after he pops a few into his mouth, "hope yer English sensibilities wilnae be offended, but we've no cups around. We'll have to share."

As if to illustrate his point, he uncorks it one-handed and takes a gulping drink, still mid-chewing his food, and holds the jug out. Ghost takes it without so much as blinking before he drinks from it as well.

"Done worse than drink without a cup," he remarks before setting it down beside their spread of food, "or share with a Scot."

There's a stray piece of hay in his hair, but Ghost doesn't point it out. He takes him in, breaking a piece of cheese off the aged, crumbly block Rosie packed them.

"A friend then, all the way up here? Or is it because of yer lass?" John asks, smirking.

Trying to get more intel from him, but he's not really pretending otherwise, just more casually than the MacKenzie brothers. Not twins, Ghost thinks, but they might as well be with how similar they look. John does not bear much of a family resemblance, his hair dark and curling loosely, not quite long enough to be tied back like what seems to be the standard fashion. Instead, he tied half of it into a small bun, high up and ineffective at keeping it entirely from his face. He's built strong like his uncles, though, shorter but broad, with solid shoulders and thick, hairy thighs peeking out from under his kilt.

Not that Ghost lingers there, but they're hard to miss with John sitting cross-legged on his fanned-out kilt like sitting on a picnic blanket, assessing him just as openly.

"Well?"

It feels more like he's asking for Ghost's judgement than for him to go on about his 'lass', bright blue eyes gazing back at him, amused quirk of his eyebrow — and lips, before swiping them clean of ale with his tongue. 

"She's Irish, actually. We were travelling there," Ghost answers him, trying not to miss Darragh too much; he needs to keep his focus if he wants a shot at making it back to him as soon as possible.

"To be married," John fills in without another clue, nodding to himself while he picks the ale up again. "Dinnae fash, I'd put money on ye being on yer way soon enough."

Ghost hums in agreement; one way or another, he will be. "Not soon enough," he adds, guilty for sitting here when he should at least be planning. "Why did they take me with you to that hut? Why not leave me for the English?"

Across from him, John shifts and makes a face like he thinks Ghost is beyond bloody stupid. He hands Ghost the ale after drinking, bruised throat working on each swallow. He's not looking, not like that, but it's hard not to notice when the bloke makes this much of a show of it.

"How were any of us supposed ta ken that yer English? Got yer face kicked in, if ye don't recall," John finally explains, motioning at Ghost head, "still cannae open yer eye. And unconscious, ye weren't about to tell them who ye are, were ye? Besides, wi' him still in the area and ye bleeding out, leaving ye behind meant sealing yer fate."

When put like that…it's a fair point. At least if they assumed him to be a fellow Scot.

John laughs as if he reads his mind, and shakes his head. "Yer face. Christ, if that's not proof that yer no' a spy, I dinnae ken what is. I doubt the lads thought ye a Scot, but either way, no red either. Everything else, I cannae say."

Can't, or won't. They reach for the bread at the same time and their fingers brush, Ghost's hand marred with old scars and new cuts from bushes and sharp branches, John's hand less scarred but his knuckles bruised and split. 

No tattoos on him, but John's eyes catch on the 'dead' part of his knuckle tattoos, spelling 'dead meat'.

"Sorry," Ghost apologises as he picks the bread up anyway, only to tear it in two. He gives half to John, who grins and bites his lip on it. Somewhat thin, curving prettily — "how's your shoulder?"

It wasn't a bloody moment, but Ghost does have eyes, interested in him or not. He bites down on his half of the bread to have hands free, hot in the autumn sun and his too-small woollen coat.

"Smarts like a horse kicked me — gently," John chuckles, amused at watching Ghost undress, "should get ye a plaid, big lad like ye. Toasty when ye need it to be, nice an' airy when ye don't."

"Edward said it's only for some," he replies for lack of much else to say, but John shrugs.

"Depends, it's mostly for the clan and men sworn to it, showing allegiance, ye ken. The fighting men, at least. But ones working the fields wear them, too. And hunters. Wee Edward just isnae any of those, and real keen to be one. Ye, bein' English, might get a strange look or ten, but no one would stop ye," John explains, motioning to nothing in particular with his bread before pausing to take a bite, "so, how come ye found me in the woods and decided to interfere?"

"Why did I decide to interfere with a man set to beating you into mush when you were out like a bloody light?" Ghost deadpans, but John makes this little dissatisfied noise at him, and Ghost relents, just like that. "Heard sounds of a fight before, more men, and a straggling soldier shot at me but missed. Picked his weapon up where he dropped it to talk to his superior. Found you on the riverbank, unresponsive, while he kept going. Told him to stop, he didn't seem much inclined."

Ghost picks the ale up to drink, pretending not to look for signs whether John believes him or not. It's all true, but it's far from the whole story.

"There's more to it than that," John urges him on, "Murtagh said ye got between us when Price went to shoot me."

Ghost takes another swig of ale before handing him the jug. "We were talking, I thought I recognised him. That's when the others interrupted, and he aimed at you."

He doesn't mention his theory, that the shot wasn't meant to kill, that the beating was merciless but not senseless, and that he suspects history between them. John nearly gave him a different name just now, which leads Ghost to believe he's right. 

A criminal, at least in the eye of the crown. Saying any of that out loud wouldn't work in his favour to convince them he's not a spy. So he'll play dumb, and hopefully regain his freedom sooner than having to wait until he can fight.

It won't be long and he's fought through worse, but he can't fail if it comes to that.

"Vengeful bastard, that man," John all but growls, face dark and eyes stormy despite the soft sun bathing him in light. "I owe ye my gratitude, Simon," he looks like he means it, but sounds less than serious, and Ghost has to school his face away from a smile, "saved my arse twice in one night. Once my life and once my arm, even if it's of little use to me at present."

Ghost hums. "And in thanks I got a sore arse and the polite hint not to head for the bridge. Where are we?"

"About a day's ride from where we left," John replies, quick and smirking, much less funny than he thinks he is.

"Which was where? It was hours later when I woke up."

"Aye, Murtagh said a kick like tha' might have ye wake up a bit daft, drooling on yerself and such. Said if ye woke up at all, there might not be much rattlin' around in yer skull," John keeps smirking, at least amusing one of them.

"Looked pretty done for yourself," Ghost reminds him sternly, like reprimanding one of the sergeants just because he could — Darragh was included in that, part of the team or not.

John squints at him, and just like that, the—what Ghost clearly misread as—friendly banter ends there. "Ye a sailor, then? Explains why ye sound strange, even for an Englishman."

He could agree, but any amount of scrutiny would catch him in the lie, and Ghost shakes his head. It's not like he forgot that he's not here to make friends, but it was easy to just talk with John for a little while, sharing a meal in peace and without much of the endless talking from the MacArthurs, or the suspicious questioning from the MacKenzies.

"No. Saw some of the world, but not at sea," he sighs, sitting up straighter and placing his piece of bread back on the small cloth laid out between them.

"But ye were a soldier? See all the makings of one," John pries, as Ghost knew he would, not knowing him but knowing that look in his eyes.

"I was."

"A coward, then?"

There's no judgement in John's voice, only curiosity, but his words strike true and cut deep.

"Not in the way you think."

Before John can ask more, a man emerges from the stables and stalks over fast on stiff looking legs.

"Do ye think that just because yer lame, ye can go sitting on yer arse all afternoon? Tha' mare needs discipline, no' ye taking yer time to fill yer belly!"

He does not acknowledge Ghost, but Ghost gets to his feet, and nods to them both. "Didn't mean to keep him or get him in trouble, sir."

"Am no' in trouble," John protests, pointedly not standing up, "Old John has it in his heid tha' I can train a horse wi' one arm. Likely story, that."

"Your dad?" Ghost interrupts whatever Old John was about to offer as a rebuttal, failing to see the family resemblance between them more than between Young John and the MacKenzies.

"I thank Christ every day not to have a son like him," Old John sneers, "if yer not saddling the beast, put her back in the field. What bloody good are ye to me in this state?"

He's off just as fast, hobbling slightly, steaming with anger, and Ghost holds out his hand to help the younger of Johns up.

Blindingly sharp pain shoots through his shoulder when John takes the offer and he hauls him up without thinking, his left bloody arm to match John who can't use his right.

"Oh, bleeding mother Mary," John steadies him when he nearly doubles over from the pain, "Christ, I'm sorry, I wasnae thinking — and neither were ye."

That makes Ghost laugh out loud despite the ebbing pain, still holding onto John's forearm as his vision clears and the stab fades to a throbbing remnant. John looks as shocked by the noise as Ghost pretends not to be, well aware of how bloody unnatural he sounds when he really laughs, not quite human and too much like himself.

It's not shame or anything else that keeps him from it, and Darragh has a way of pulling the sound from the depths, but it's rare in his day to day. And people don't like it, just as they generally tend to be wary of him altogether.

Not John, who looks beyond delighted for some fucking reason, or he did before his gaze slips to Ghost's shoulder and the look turns to concern.

"Shite, yer bleeding again. Sit down, let me see."

"You a doctor now?" Ghost protests as John switches his grip to his other arm and pulls him down to the grass again.

He could've resisted, but just like that, they're knelt closely together. Excuses shouldn't become a familiar ritual, but Ghost offers himself the small one of being caught off guard by three things at once; the pain he shouldn't react to this much, John's stupid joke that shouldn't make him laugh that hard, and his burning fingers through the linen shirt demanding Ghost to follow.

John tugs on his shirt without answering him, pulling the wide neckline over to expose the slowly soaking bandage underneath — it's not bad, he can easily tell, but Ghost's vision swims for a moment and he just barely stops himself from grabbing John to steady himself.

"It's nothing," he grinds out, only angry with himself for being this weak when he knows—has years and years of experience—that he can do better than this.

Being lost and confused is no excuse. Just like being hurt isn't. He needs to get out of here, he should've been underway the moment he woke up, and instead he's wasting time and losing focus, no matter that he keeps on telling himself it's only to have a shot. All he needs to do is clear that bridge, or swim to shore.

It's not that bloody far.

He shoves John back rougher than he means to, and gets to his feet.

"Stop!" John calls as he turns to go, "Simon, I'm telling ye, dinnae go." A beat between, and Ghost hates himself for hesitating. "They wilnae let ye. If ye mean to see yer lass again, ye need to stay."

Ghost fights himself on both fronts, on turning to face him or ignoring what he said to follow his heart back home, guilt and blame constricting around his throat, his feet planted squarely in the middle. Which only makes it worse that he does turn back.

John hasn't moved from where he pushed him, on his arse instead of his knees and bracing himself on his good elbow, staring up at him in a mixture of hot anger and almost pleading concern. He sits up now, cross-legged and defiant, despite how Ghost towers over him.

"I can see it plain on yer face, dinnae think otherwise. But yer hurt, and what exactly do ye think will happen? That you'll get across or much further, and just head east? Dougal will have ye hunted down like game meat, dinnae bloody fool yerself."

With dawning realisation, Ghost hears what he doesn't say. Not outright.

"You're not here by choice."

"It's a long bloody story. Stay, and I might tell ye."

They stare at each other, a dare or a fight or an extended olive branch, maybe all at once, as if Ghost didn't fail the moment he stopped in his tracks. He looks at John through his one working eye, through the nausea of pain and pathetic self-hatred, and relents. Brain over heart, when his heart is screaming at him to do whatever he can.

What he can do just isn't good enough. Not right now.

All Ghost says is "I'm sorry," unsure what he's sorry for and who he's apologising to, but he doesn't have time to think it over. A small figure makes its way downhill, unsteady and stumbling as they both watch the kid approach. "Your uncle said he'd send for me," he explains, "they were discussing what to do with me."

"Suppose we're about to find out then," John's voice is — he can't tell, but it's something just left of steady, and Ghost offers him his right hand to get up this time.

He ends up mostly yanking John up by his elbow, neither of them able to get a better suited grip like this, hurting them both, and less than completely unintentionally mean. John hasn't earned that, and making himself feel it stronger won't help either, but they stare at each other for another moment before the kid reaches them, winces stuck in place, nostrils flaring like the pretty mare's behind John, frowns deep — and Ghost finally releases John's arm.

So much for making a friend or ally in him, a last flash of stormy eyes before he turns around and a high-pitched and heavily accented little voice forces Ghost to swallow his apology.

"Mister, yer tha' one da meant!" It's not a question, but Ghost nods to the boy, and he holds out a tiny hand demandingly, which Ghost takes carefully into his own. "He said 'the great big lad tha's sheared like a sheep', but yer no sheep I've ever seen." The kid pulls him along, and Ghost glances over his shoulder to John. He doesn't look back. "Da wants ye up the tower, he's waiting for ye with uncle, an' they were havin' words — are ye in trouble, mister?"

"I'm sure we can talk about it," Ghost replies, not sure at all and slightly distracted by the pulsing pain in his shoulder, blood soaking through his shirt.

"Is it clan business? Last time it was him, and they stayed up in the tower all night, my ma said. But now they like him again!"

That's interesting, and might align with what he concluded and John didn't deny. "You mean John?"

"Young John, not Old John. Da says he's a right old bastard, though," the boy explains, at least enough to confirm that they're talking about the same John.

Ghost doesn't understand why he didn't introduce himself as a MacKenzie, seeing as he had no trouble telling him that Dougal and the laird are his uncles — then again, they were tired and hurt and maybe he meant to keep that to himself. It's not that Ghost didn't question it when they talked, but he meant to tuck it away for if and when it became relevant. And chances are that John won't tell him his reasons or the truth now. It might not matter at all, but Ghost knows bloody better than to fumble like this.

One thing he does know for sure is that he shouldn't let on that he knows anything at all, about John trying to hide his identity or his suspicion of why. Or that he clocked that John's not allowed—or able—to leave, either. Whether it matters or not—by which Ghost means helps, and only himself, his concern for the stranger got him into part of this fucking mess—the intel is his to keep and sit on.

He wants to question the kid more, but once they're up the hill he pulls his sweaty little hand free from Ghost's, "Don't keep da waiting!" and darts off in the directions of the gardens. How much he'd be able to tell him is questionable at best, at his age, but Ghost didn't even manage to get a location out of John. 

He shakes the thoughts from his shoulders, and winces at his blood-sticky shirt, but doesn't bother going back to the pasture for his coat. Whatever conclusion the MacKenzie brothers came to will inform his next course of action, unless they mean to imprison or kill him. Neither seems all that likely, but wishing him well and letting him borrow a horse seems less likely than either.

And if they have settled on locking him up, he just alienated the one man who might have some pull over them. Whether John would've used it if he's just as stuck here is another question entirely, and Ghost shouldn't have counted on him in the first place. Despite that, and despite seeing no good outcome, he makes his way back into the castle, and to the tower. He doesn't spot Rosie or her brother, though the castle is far from quiet around him. 

He takes the long and winding stairs back up, glancing around at the floors he passes and learning little to nothing, though one of them looks to be a library — which means, maybe, record keeping. What, if anything, he could find in there that's useful, Ghost doesn't know. But he can't discount trying if he gets the chance.

When Ghost reaches the top floor, he takes care to walk silently. He hopes to hear something through the door, any indication, a last chance to know beforehand what they've decided. And if it is imprisonment, he'll need to make his way back outside as fast as he can while forming a plan to escape. It would've been his first plan, if he wasn't well aware that he can't properly fight, and if John hadn't read his mind and told him that trying was pointless. 

He shouldn't have blindly believed him. Ghost knows better than that.

But even with his ear nearly pressed to the heavy wood door, Ghost only hears the hint of voices, and nothing he can make out. Not even if they're speaking English at all, and the difference is obvious not just from words but tones and cadence.

He's fucking stupid for coming back at all.

Ghost knocks.

"Aye, come in, lad," Lachlan calls from inside, he's fairly sure despite their similar voices — if nothing else, he's the one playing good cop.

Unless that was John, their nephew suddenly pretending not to be.

Ghost opens the door and steps inside before closing it after himself. The only two people inside are still Lachlan and Dougal, though Dougal sits on the windowsill slightly to the right of Lachlan's chair now, no longer looming near the wall and blocking Ghost's way out if he tried to make a run for it.

"Took my wee one a while to find ye, did it?" Lachlan shakes his head in amusement, and he motions back at the chairs in front of his desk. "Join us. We've talked. And talked some more. What did John have to say to ye?"

Ghost takes a seat, admittedly glad to sit down again, his head or the room spinning slightly off kilter.

"He's bleeding," Dougal observes, but Lachlan waves him off.

"We'll get him seen by Graham as soon as we're done here. Go on, lad."

Ghost wishes his thoughts were clearer, but it's not a lie when he replies "Not much, besides thanking me. Asked the same things you did. Gave him the same answers, if you feel like checking."

He doesn't doubt that they will. Lachlan waves the idea of it off with his prosthetic hand, though.

"Same answers or no', we've no way to verify yer story, do we? As a matter of fact, that's been a point of some debate between my brother an' I. Where did ye say ye were born? Ye sound a bit like Calan, but different. Like no Englishman I ever heard."

Ghost keeps himself from a jab at not going out much, used to anyone else picking up where's from within a word or two. He does not sound like Calan, who he guesses is from around Newcastle, which he and Darragh stopped in for a few days. Didn't do much in the way of a history tour there, though.

"Further south. Born in Manchester," he answers, again knowing little of its history apart from the Blitz — and that it's much older than the current year, at least.

"Ah, I ken it. What does yer family do down there?" Lachlan doesn't sound all that interested in the answer, which leads Ghost to conclude his mind is made up on whatever they discussed or think of him.

Or mean to accuse him of more openly.

"Nothing now. But my da' was a butcher, his before him," both true, though Ghost's grandfather fought in the war as well, at least on that side of the family.

"And ye? Taken up the mantle?"

"For a time." Ghost helped out in the shop, and he knows his way around a carcass, but he vowed not to follow in his father's footsteps, nothing but hunting since. "Might again, if there's work in it."

"There's always work in it," Lachlan replies somewhat cryptically; as far as Ghost is aware, it's not exactly a widespread occupation, "but let's lay it all out on the table."

Dougal shifts against the windowsill, but his expression remains the same as it was. Brow creased and mouth a thin line in his beard, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Disapproving, Ghost judges. Which might mean this will end up well for him, with Lachlan playing good cop, but he's not bloody daft enough to trust either of them.

"So," Lachlan starts after his heavy pause, "ye will have noticed my hand," he pauses again, not looking for an answer or raising it off the table for emphasis, "tha' was a gift from the captain. Well before he was captain, too. And ye saw what he did to Young John. That man has been a plague upon the Highlands for years now, though he hasnae dared to come far into MacKenzie lands. Or up north," he laughs, short and sharp but not entirely humourless, and Ghost waits for him to get to the point.

"My point is"—that's almost funny—"he's no’ a man well-liked. And by extension, nor is any man tha' associates with him. Now, I believe ye about being no spy, an' about yer lass awaiting yer return, too. But my brother here, he has trouble trusting that ye didnae ken him beforehand. Ye may have saved our Young John's life, but Dougal says he heard ye talkin'. And ye addressed him by name."

"He looks like someone I knew. Same name, too. But not the same man," Ghost explains, kicking himself for keeping that part to himself — he had no way of knowing Dougal was there. "If Dougal was there, why didn't he stop Price himself?"

"I arrived after ye did," he speaks up to defend himself, "and saw the lad already near-dead, lyin' there. Cannae have been a moment before the others joined me an' we attacked. Then ye went in front of the pistol."

"And that doesn't prove to you that he's no friend of mine?" Ghost asks in earnest: if Dougal heard them talk, he also has to have heard that it wasn't a plot.

"No. Neither of ye were s'pposed to be in the area. One is chance, but two Englishmen that ken each other? After his men ran on? When it's a dragoon? Things are no' adding up."

That, they can somewhat agree on, but Lachlan clicks his tongue and both Ghost and Dougal's attention shifts back to him at once.

"No sense repeating the same arguin' over and over. We've settled on something that'll have us all satisfied in the end," he takes a breath, frowning with nearly the same face as his brother — maybe they are twins, and just led a different life at a time. "So. Ye'll stay here wi' us to heal that shoulder. And when yer back to good health, yer politely invited to come along. Because enough is enough. And either ye'll prove useful, or ye won't. Either way, we leave ye there."

Dead or alive goes without saying.

It's help capture or kill this Captain Price, or refuse and die for his trouble. Which he still might; whether it's from something else or the infection he's battling. Accepting carries many implications he'll have to think on and consider, not least of which is the consequences of killing Price. For his Price.

Ghost nods before the details can pull him off course. "And what if he's not there?"

"He'll be there sooner or later. He and his men are stationed at the fort. They go roaming, but those English cunts are like bairns returning to their mother's skirts for safety and comfort," it's Dougal who answers him, sounding like he's already got the scent of blood in his nose.

So does Ghost, but that's only his own. Blood, and the scent of his freedom.

"We could use a man such as yerself," Lachlan adds, "plenty of big lads around, but look at yerself. If ye think I cannae tell when a man's seen battle, ye also think me a fool."

There's no point denying it, not with his scars and build; everyone he meets can see what Ghost's life consisted of. And Ghost does not underestimate the laird. A weak king won't keep his throne, and Lachlan, despite his disability, seems seated firmly. Even with his more capable brother looming behind him.

"How will you keep me here? When I'm healed enough to fight at your side, I can fight to leave," Ghost points out, since they're laying it all out, "since you don't trust my word."

Which he's right to, and Lachlan's sharp grin tells him he knows it just as much. Different reasons, but the same result.

"I figured ye might ask me tha' outright. Good to see ye loosening up, at least," Lachlan's grin doesn't drop much while he talks, but there's more than amusement to it, "by now, most everyone here kens who ye are. By tomorrow, word will spread to the boundaries of clan territory. I'm no' saying that ye dinnae stand a chance, ye very well might. But we can agree to be friends, and yer journey back will be a lot smoother. Winter's on the way, lad."

Those don't sound like great arguments to Ghost's ears. "Won't I have more to tell the longer you keep me here?"

"Aye. But if it's true what ye claim, ye won't have reason to tell it, now will ye? And if it's not, I welcome ye to leave and to handle each clan member tha' comes after ye," Lachlan warns him, but sighs. "This is what we agreed on, yer other choice is the cells until things settle. Because by now I dinnae doubt ye figured out that John has a price on his wee heid. With the information of his whereabouts, not just the captain but the bloody garrison would have reason to come try and claim him."

That's about what Ghost concluded, though it leaves more questions than answers.

"So, spy or not, you don't want me out of your sight until Price is handled," Ghost recaps, "and my word isn't enough if I vow to keep it to myself."

"Exactly," Dougal again, but the two of them do seem like two halves of a whole the longer Ghost spends with them, down to leaning the same way but opposite, same as the eyebrow they raise at him — he's settling on twins now, though not without a doubt. "Yer stayin' with us, and whether tha's in a cell or free to move as ye please—even off Fleòdradh if yer accompanied—well, lad. Tha's up to ye."

Agreeing doesn't mean that he won't make his escape, but it's the only move he has if he wants a chance at that.

"Deal. When do we go after him?" Ghost has no intention of actually helping them with the matter, but having a date by which he needs to be gone is helpful.

They'll assemble more men, he guesses, which is clearly something to avoid. He may like to pretend he's something less than human, The Ghost swooping down and laying waste, all that shite, but he's one man and he's unarmed. Not to mention dizzy.

"There will be no rushing, I'm sorry to say," Lachlan takes charge again, not sounding all that sorry, "we'll need men, and we'll need to plan. If ye prove to be as trustworthy as ye say, I don't see why ye wouldn't be included in the preparations."

Ghost takes care not to show it on his face, but if other ways of getting out of this don't work out, it sounds like being included—trusted—is a good bet. Not at first, they'd keep a careful watch. But eventually. He can't think like that, it has to be as soon as possible, but a chance is better than none.

He can count on one hand the times he needed to keep emotions out of rational planning. On three fingers. Dire situations aplenty, countless involving his own life or death. Ghost never — no.

"What do I do in the meantime?"

His ears ring, but his voice remains steady. He breathes. Measured and slow. Swallowing is a tell, but it's better than letting his throat close up.

"Ye said yer a butcher, reckon old Bill welcomes some help. More than enough to do around here, dinnae fash," Dougal tells him while he straightens from the windowsill, and he squeezes his brother's shoulder as he circles around the desk to Ghost, "c'mon lad, up ye go. White as a ghost, ye are. Doc will set ye right."

"Aye, and Simon? Join us in the hall tonight, if ye can. As our guest. We'll have a toast to new beginnings, make it official-like. No great feast, only supper. But I hope to see ye there," Lachlan nods to him, his meaning — not entirely clear on its own, since less and less is, but implied strongly enough.

It's to give everyone a good look at him, should he choose to break his word. Just who and how many of the actual fighting men of the clan will be there, Ghost doesn't know. But it's a threat as much as it's an invitation.

"Looking forward to it," he lies, one that's obvious to all three of them.

Part of whatever game he just entered without knowing most of the rules or moves available to him. And what he's gambling with isn't just his life, but possibly Darragh's.

He has to find him, whether that's back through the cairn into his own time, or somewhere here.

If it's even possible to return at all.

۝

Dougal accompanied him down and to the other side of the keep, where he left Ghost in doctor Beaton’s care. They didn't speak much on the way, and Dougal only grunted when he dropped Ghost off, but the unspoken look he sent the doctor's way said enough. 

If this is his freedom, it leaves a lot to be desired.

By the time he's all patched up again, Ghost feels like an old man who missed his post-lunch nap. Worse, but he's allowed himself more than enough weakness. The wound, which Ghost saw as well as he could this time, looks both worse and better than expected. 

He couldn't see the entry point but the exit side won't improve his looks, as Graham joked while he cleaned it of the poultice he applied yesterday, and a mixture of dried, clotting, and fresh blood. The bullet tore through him in fragments, and the damage is substantial, scattered in about a fist-sized and star-shaped pattern. How he got away without—so far—losing arm function or bleeding from it hitting a major artery, Ghost doesn't know. Wounds like these, point-blank range, they kill. 

But, as far as he could see, there's no sign of necrosis, no tell-tale smell of puss, and the blood that flowed before Graham got him sorted looked bright and clean. He lost more of it than he thought, but Ghost isn't too worried about that as long as he can keep the rest in. Fluids and time, as long he manages to fight his remaining fever. It could be much worse.

It's also time he doesn't have.

Ghost wasted at least an hour of it just sitting in the room — the surgery, as his host calls it. There's no guard outside, and if Graham did anything more than make a face at him for considering his escape, he could take him. Strong as the man looks for someone not a soldier or labourer in this time. 

For all Ghost knows, they’ve got whatever qualifies for a gym around here somewhere. It'd be nice if they did, actually. And he could go for a protein shake.

Less so for a run, still dizzy, his muscles trembling slightly. 

They've talked some, Graham and him, but the doctor hasn't been as open as he was when Ghost woke up on his worktable. And in truth, while there's a lot to learn and figure out about this place, he could use the opportunity to get his thoughts a bit more sorted. 

He's sitting by the window, in the same spot John sat yesterday, mostly looking outside. There's not a lot to see apart from the occasional legs as someone walks past, but crisp air makes its way in through the cracks, and Ghost is fairly sure he smells fresh herbs and late-blooming flowers. Which means they're close to the gardens.

And what's more, is that there's a door outside not too far from here, up the stairs and to the right. It might make for a better exit when he's ready or it might not, but it'll help to have a complete map of the place in his head. He could be doing more of that right now, but faking obedience is better; it wouldn't be long before word got back to Dougal if he brushed Graham off and left.

Rational thought and panic haven't quite fought it out in his mind, but he has to find a way to at least balance them out. Getting back to Inverness and the cairns is not an option right now. No matter how much it feels like giving up not to fight his way there, he can't fight, not good enough. It'd lead to being locked up or to his death.

And he has to trust that if Maud made the connection between his disappearance and the cairn—passage tomb, he recalls sticking out to him on the little information plaque in the car park—and told Darragh about it, that he won't risk missing Ghost by going through it himself. 

It's more hope than trust. 

If their positions were reversed, Ghost wouldn't hesitate, even knowing that it might be the worst move to make. He couldn't risk Darragh needing him and not showing up to save him. At least to try. He'd need to try bringing him back.

On the other hand, he has no idea if that's possible, or how it worked at all. Why here, why now, and just how many people have gone back and forth. The place—the burials, at least—is thousands of years old. Ghost doesn't know how those people created a — a what? A portal? And did they travel back as many years as he did, or more, or did they go forward?

He's giving himself a headache thinking about it all, sitting nearly motionless on the stool like when he's taken up a spot to stake out a target, keeping track of Graham at his back; scribbling, still. 

He needs a bloody fag.

And he needs to see about apologizing to John tonight. They don't have to be friends, but he could still prove to be an ally, or at least someone useful. If Ghost doesn't lay it on too thick, he can use saving his life as leverage. Turn him against his uncles, if necessary. They're in somewhat similar situations, both injury-wise and as free-roaming prisoners.

Apart from Ghost not being all that free at present.

It's been a long day, and it's not close to over yet.

Ghost sips his garlic tea without sighing out loud, but allows himself it mentally. Less satisfying, but good enough. A mental fag definitely does not bloody cut it, though. And there's a fat chance he'll be gracefully allowed to fuck off and go to his room — at this point, he wouldn't even use the opportunity to snoop before he smoked. Half a pack won't last him long, rationing or not.

It's not close to Ghost's biggest problem, but itching for some nicotine doesn't help him keep a clear head.

۝

13 September 2007

His lighter clicks. And clicks. And clicks. Not a spark, until another suddenly does, followed by a flame.

It moves his way, and Simon looks past it to bloody knuckles, a hairy forearm, and then a vaguely familiar face before sticking his cigarette into the fire and taking a deep drag. He draws smoke into still-burning lungs, relishing the pain but not the reminder he has no need for. 

Everything feels distant and unreal, not quite the cliché of looking down upon himself. Something closer to standing just behind his own shoulder, and moving at a slight delay, as if watching a security feed. He has thoughts, he thinks, but they're not quite his own. Or they are, but they're — there's too much static, and it's loud, and he can't make out much of anything but knows whatever it is, is crucial.

And he knows that not hearing it is for the better, too. Ignoring shapes in the deep and dark waters to make it to the other side somehow. Hiding under a blanket and pretending the monster won't see him there.

He's still staring at the man in front of him, though, his gaze met with unwavering grey eyes.

"John Price," the man introduces himself, "bum one of those?"

Simon offers him the pack, fixated on the dirt under his fingernails. He doesn't offer him his own name. It sticks much further down than in his throat, and it tastes of dry earth, stinks of rot. 

The man — Price, lights a fag for himself, and steps through the invisible veil between them to lean against the trucks beside him.

"Legally, you're dead. How about a fresh start?"

Dead, but still here. Lingering.

Haunting, then.

Ghost nods.

Chapter Text

۝

Chapter Eight

3 November 1744

Ghost is relieved to be back in his room after the talk, the careful agreement they've come to. 

At least, he would be if he were alone instead of herded here by Rosie, Jane quietly behind. And if the former would fucking stop putting pins in the garments she has him trying on, plucking and pinching and pulling until his nerves stand on edge.

He hasn't missed the now-familiar plaid, folded—and more tempting by the second—over one of the chairs by the hearth. No fire burns in it, and it's chilly in his room with the sun going down already, but Rosie didn't just bring the clothes; she also brought another cup of steaming garlic tea. It's foul beyond a lot of the shite Ghost consumed through the years.

He sips it dutifully.

It's not what saved him, realistically, not over the bullet fragment being removed, but he'd be a fool to disregard the help without any antibiotics. Mostly, he does not want to make an enemy out of Rosie. Young as she is, it's true that she seems to run the entire castle in household manners. Likely more.

"Now, then. I ken ye've worn those all day," she motions to his too-small breeches, not the pair he's got on currently with pins jabbing him whenever he moves, "but altering these will take some time. Why don't ye let wee Eddie help ye wear a plaid for supper?"

It's not really a question as much as a polite suggestion, and Ghost glances at the folded blanket. Most of the men he talked to wore one, but the only one he spent any time looking closer at was John. It seemed comfortable enough on him, and less likely to tear if Ghost sits down too suddenly, which is an obvious point for. And it's not as if he's wearing bloody underwear in his breeches, either. 

Making a quick getaway by jumping on a horse wouldn't be easy in a skirt, though.

"Just for tonight," he agrees, "they won't take offence?"

From what he's seen, none of the men wear outspoken clan colours, at least not like the ones he and Darragh encountered on their trip. Muted browns, greens, greys, and blues, most the same — Lachlan's was made of deeper colours, but the others seemed fit for hunting. Camouflage, like his own gear depending on terrain, biome, and circumstances. What these men wear is a lot more suited than the attention-grabbing red the English wear.

"Offence? Why ever would any Highland man take offence at tha'? Ye stand out enough already, don't ye think? Showing up to supper in breeches so short is what ye should be worried about," Rosie smiles at him, and motions to the shadow in the corner, "Jane, run and fetch Eddie for me. Now, ye go on and wash up, Edward will take these to me when yer both done here."

She takes her leave as well, allowing no further argument. Not that Ghost had much mind to argue at all. He may not prefer to wear a kilt and blend in, but it's part of everything else. The other side of it, he suspects, is that it suits them too, dressing him like one of their own. It both underlines their agreement, and makes breaking it a bigger betrayal in the clan men's eyes.

Or so he fucking assumes, because he's almost as lost as when he arrived here.

Ghost sighs, carefully shrugging out of his clothes for a quick fag before Edward gets here. Willing to risk the interruption, frayed like a man less used to working under pressure might be.

He's grateful for the blast of cold air when he opens the window, but more grateful for the nicotine in his bloodstream. Another drag, deep and slow, looking out over the dark water under the washed out blues of the evening sky. Control. 

The pain in his shoulder dimmed down to something he can easily ignore in the hours since the doctor cleaned his wounds and replaced his dressings, searing only when he pays attention to it. When he does, Ghost can almost feel where the bullet fragment lodged into bone. He's lucky it didn't shatter his clavicle. 

He’s bloody lucky the infection didn't take proper root. Wouldn't stand a chance fighting his way out and to the cairn.

Which brings him to questions he can't consider yet, not fully.

What if he makes it all the way there, only for the cairn to be silent without the druid's song? What if it's annual? Or only happened once, for him, some freak accident. Pure bad luck.

There's no other option but to go see what happens. No shot at getting the full picture from here. It's not as if Ghost is a stranger to going in blind and working in the dark. And magic is only a word to use when no other explanation fits, but it sure feels apt for this. He doesn't know enough about time or physics to explain what could cause that place to pull him back through time. 

Like a camera obscura, catching light at the right time and angle to project an image — upside down and slightly out of focus, an accidental snapshot.

Darragh and he visited a place by the same name in Edinburgh, showing that and many other optical illusions. The serendipity of hindsight does little to warm his icy fingers. Not magic, just inexplicable without the right knowledge. Many things throughout time have been. Many are.

In the end, he doesn't need to understand how it works, just that it does. Someone in the area will know something. They'd have to, unless he's the first and only, the ritual just ceremony and his journey pure shite luck.

Ghost takes the last drag of his cigarette just as someone—Edward, of course—knocks on his door and enters without waiting, but as planned, he flicks the butt out into the dusk-blue world.

"Didn't you learn your lesson this morn—" Ghost stops himself as he turns around and comes face to face with not Edward.

"Sorry, Eddie ran into me and asked me to help ye get dressed," John doesn't look any happier to see him than the other way around, taking in the sight of Ghost in nothing more than the large linen shirt he's wearing. "What's that smell? Were ye burning something?"

"No."

John eyes him.

Ghost stares back.

A gust of cold air from the open window stirs his shirt around him, and Ghost speaks at the same time as John's eyes drop to its hem.

"How are you supposed to help," Ghost doesn't ask, since it's obvious that he can't; arm safely tucked in the sling.

"Close the window before ye freeze yer sack off," John grumbles and refocuses, walking over to the chair where the plaid lies, "I can instruct and ye can dress yerself, yer no helpless bairn or halfwit."

Fair enough. It's not why he's really here, but Ghost doesn't point it out. If John doesn't think him a halfwit, he must know that Ghost knows. And this is some kind of test or —

"Get on wi' it. Help me lay this out on the floor."

Ghost takes a deep breath while he closes the window, irritated by his mere presence. And John hasn't even done anything to earn his ire apart from bossing him around here and now. It's not that, but the fact that he reminds Ghost of everyone else doing the same all day, from his uncles to the servants to John himself, family but a prisoner like Ghost is. And it's not even being bossed around, ordered into things or away from them; he was a soldier for Christ's sake. Orders and following them was his day to day.

What's getting his goat is how powerless he is. For now, but reminding himself to bide his time doesn't work when it's past time that he should've been home.

"Why are you really here?" Ghost doesn't snap at him, but John's face hardens all the same.

"Thought ye might be less of a cunt after Doc patched yer shoulder up. Guess I was mistaken. Now, do ye mean to stay in yer shirt or will ye let me help?"

John picks up the plaid without waiting for an answer, shaking it one-handed to unfold the thick wool fabric — angrily when it clings to itself but still staring Ghost down. As much as he can, coming up to just about Ghost's chin. 

Effective all the same, his eyes stormy in the candle lit room.

Ghost joins him and takes hold of the fabric to straighten it out without a word, and together they spread it on the floor.

"Now, to put it on, yer gonna want to leave about the width of yer waist," he looks up at Ghost, both kneeling on either end, plainly measuring him with his eyes — Ghost isn't unused to baring more skin that he is right now, it came with the ex-job and close quarters, but the thin linen shirt feels nude, "so, from here. Then ye make pleats until as much remains on the other side."

Ghost isn't entirely sure he understands, but starts from his own end. He takes the fabric and folds it onto itself to make one, and John hums at him, nodding when Ghost looks up. He makes another and another, hands surer with each fold and each small encouraging noise John makes in his direction.

Closer and closer, following after the plaid as if Ghost pulls him closer too, shuffling on his knees.

"You do this every morning?" Ghost asks without looking up, working steadily, eyes on his work instead of looking up.

His work and his ring, guilt churning in his stomach for losing the sapphire. For leaving him. Ghost didn't think he wanted marriage at all until Darragh asked and his heart broke open, showing him a future that's now incredibly far away. A future he may not be able to return to.

John huffs out a small laugh. "No' this slowly. But aye, unless I wore it to sleep. I ken ye'll get the hang of it quick enough. Since yer staying."

He doesn't phrase it as a question, which seems to be turning into a habit between them already, but Ghost grunts his affirmation.

"Not exactly up to me," he adds, glancing up as he finishes folding, "what's next?"

John's lips twitch on a grin at the double meaning of that, but he's all business when he replies, rising to his feet. "Yer belt. Slide it under, waist high."

He hands it to Ghost after spotting where he left it, and Ghost eyeballs whereabouts to put it so he won't end up in a mini skirt. It takes a bit of effort to get it under while keeping the pleats he folded, but eventually he sits back on his heels, awaiting further instruction.

"Well? Go on, lie down in the centre," John gestures impatiently, his soft curls falling into his eyes as he looks down at Ghost, "then, ye wanna take half and wrap it over yerself, the other half after."

Ghost lies down—and makes sure to keep his shirt down to cover himself as it tries to ride up—and wraps both halves around himself. Followed by his belt to secure them without needing to be told, which earns him another appreciative hum from John. Maybe they can be friendly, despite Ghost's earlier behaviour. Or how it started when John walked into his room. 

He hasn't forgotten their ride over to the castle. A strange way to bond, maybe, but they did — at least during it. 

"Now, take the upper left point and hold it to yer shoulder if ye can. The other will cross under yer arm and up, after ye stand," John instructs him while pulling something out of the small bag around his waist.

"If I can," Ghost repeats sarcastically, ignoring the jolt of pain as he does it, "I'm not the one standing around like a bird with a broken wing."

It's meant to be joking, rough as his voice comes out, but there's no need to worry; John grins wide and offers him his hand in a mirror of how Ghost helped him up earlier. Matched all wrong, left to right, not really necessary, and a clear gesture of trying.

He'd like to say his heart is too cold and his mind too focused to care, but he does. A little, but beyond making use of the connection. He doesn't — feelings are a complicated matter to Ghost. He can allow himself a prick of fondness when there's not much else to hold onto at present. Needing anything at all is something he shouldn't allow, but self-punishment needs only go so far as to ascertain mission performance.

"A bird, am I? If it weren't for yer strict orders, I'd be flapping my wings," John replies a little late, groaning with the effort when Ghost can't resist making him work for it by letting him more of his weight than he needs to, "Christ, yer a big lad. Not often we see Englishmen yer size."

"Is that so?" Ghost wonders if he knows what he sounds like, biting his lip, hand lingering briefly on Ghost's forearm.

Definitely not. None of that would fly in this time, but if they were in Ghost's he might think the bloke was coming onto him. Not act on it, and John has to be ten years younger than him, but he'd think it.

"Aye. Viking's blood in ye, I reckon. Like those markings," John points to the Vegvisir on his right shoulder, its edges just poking out through the wide collar of his shirt.

"Wrong country. That's from Iceland," Ghost corrects him, omitting the fact that it's from — he's not sure, actually. Later than it is now, though. By at least a hundred years. "My mum's family was from - the Norsemen. Long ago."

There's no need to tell or explain, but John looks satisfied at his theory being somewhat true. "I kent it. Only men yer size around here are pure Highlanders, and ye dinnae look like any of us. Apart from tha' red sheen in yer hair."

It's barely long enough to tell.

"What do I do with this?" he pulls them back on the right course, easy as it is to get distracted talking to John — likely why he's the one over here to help him in the first place, Ghost reminds himself.

None of this is a secret, and trying to trace his family history would be even more pointless now than it was when he looked into it as a lost kid grappling for purchase, but the point stands. He shouldn't allow himself to be so easily distracted.

"Aye, excuse me for takin' an interest," John half-jokes as he steps closer. "Take this end," he takes it himself, nudging Ghost to lift his arm out of the way, "and bring it up like so, see?"

He pauses for Ghost to see, though it's not complicated at all.

John blinks up at him, taking the other end of the kilt from Ghost's hand as well. Awfully close, and smelling much the same as when they rode together, like the embers of a hot fire, like rain-damp grass, like musky sweat and something fresh — like a barn, too. Hay and muck. 

"Now, in a pinch, ye can tie them in a knot. But I found ye a spare brooch, think it's from the horse master before Old John, see? Shaped like a horseshoe."

He shows it with his right hand, and Ghost takes it from him so he doesn't need to move his arm too much. To him, it looks less like a horseshoe and more like — he's wrong, but it looks like the diagram of the passage cairn, from above and simplified somewhat, though he can picture the uneven stones it's built from in its pattern.

"Where is he now?" Ghost asks without thinking if he should, but John only shrugs.

"Dinnae ken. Old John's been here all his life, though, suppose ye could ask him," he replies without suspicion, so close that Ghost feels his breath heating his skin. "Here, I'll hold it, ye pin it. Mind my fingers before I cannae use either hand."

Ghost joins his hand with his own to feel out where the brooch should go, warm and calloused fingers under his, bright blue eyes staring up at him under a slightly furrowed brow. He pins the kilt with his other hand, and John lets go to stand back and assess him.

"I'd say it suits ye, but it doesnae. Look like a fish out of bloody water, ye do."

He's still looking at Ghost's outfit, clearly disapproving, but without a mirror it's difficult to see just what he means.

"Guess I better learn how to breathe on land," Ghost replies, adjusting the kilt over his shoulder and resisting a joke that can't land.

They don't even have tanks yet, apart from tanks of ale.

"Put yer boots on, I'm starving and my uncle means to show ye off."

That confirms what Ghost figured out himself. It's not just the supper, but having him show up dressed like this to hammer home his potential—inevitable—betrayal. Getting out of here and through clan lands will prove more difficult after tonight. But a few days to a week is all he really needs. Fighting still won't be easy, but manageable.

He has years and years of training and refining his skills on his side. The people here are tough, but he's barely human.

"I don't get one of those?" Ghost asks, dropping his eyes to the handle of a small dagger sticking out of John's sock, joking but not.

John takes it out, but visibly thinks better of twirling it around with his non-dominant hand. "Not tonight. But I ken they'll arm ye in time, wi' a bit of trust." A pause, in which they look at each other again, that same — tension, in a way, but not. "Here."

He holds it out for Ghost by the blade, looking up at him through dark lashes. A bit of trust. 

It'd mean more if Ghost didn't already take a bullet for the man. Over bloody siding with Price as should be his first instinct. And yet, taking the small dagger and testing its weight in his hand, watching John watch him, it does mean something. Nothing John could do to defend himself, one arm already out of commission and now without even a small weapon, throat well within reach. It'd take no effort at all but a flash of steel to part his skin and soak his shirt in red. 

Wouldn't even manage a scream over a gurgled gasp. 

Ghost has no intention of harming him, but he could. Easily.

Instead, Ghost twirls the knife twice before he flips it around and offers it back. A test passed with flying colours. It didn't feel like one, but doesn't know what else it could be, either. Allegiance, maybe.

He's half hard under his fucking kilt. "Keep it. Wouldn't want your uncles to get the wrong idea."

John sticks it back in his sock without breaking eye contact, lips parted and — fuck.

"What idea would tha' be? That yer about to cut them down with this? Yer big, but not winning a fight against a hundred men tha'll have yer heid on a spike," he grins, straightening up and patting Ghost's bicep. "Let's go already."

They step back at the same time, and Ghost kicks himself for getting distracted. He pulls his boots on and ignores the disappointed twitch of his cock, as if he'd act on it even if John's flirting wasn't purely accidental. It wouldn't even be a matter of denying himself, nothing but a physical reaction to a pretty boy making eyes at him. Unintentionally. Just having eyes in his general vicinity.

If the kid knew, he wouldn't be in his room extending him an olive branch.

With the strange tension thoroughly broken, Ghost blows the candles out when John opens the door to leave, and Ghost leaves the thoughts and his shame behind. He has much bigger shite than his cock to worry about.

Which — it's an odd feeling, wearing a kilt. The linen of his shirt protects him from the rougher wool, but the drag of it doesn't help him soften any sooner, and neither does the slight breeze between his legs. John glances over his shoulder like he knows, but he doesn't say anything.

"Is that a choice?" he asks when Ghost catches up, motioning at Ghost's hair. "Ye wear a wig usually?"

"No."

"Lice, then?"

"No. Just convenient," Ghost explains, aware that it's another way he doesn't fit the right picture of an Englishman on holiday; he'd have to be well-off in these times.

Or working for someone who is, and he gave little enough detail on his supposed lass and her father. A merchant of some sort, he thinks. His story is a sieve, but so far hasn't been put to use as a bowl. If he patches enough holes, it may hold water.

"Looks s—" John clears his throat mid-sentence, eyes forward as they walk, "strange. Should get ye a hat or a bonnet to keep yer ears warm."

Ear and a half, really. They feel plenty warm right now, as does the rest of him. 

Ghost doesn't reply, since he doesn't have much to say, but thinks of food. It'll help him regain his strength, as will rest, and he'll be out of here soon. Not soon enough, but as soon as he can reasonably manage. He'll endure the bloody parade, play along with the plan — the plan.

He can't stay to stop them. If this Price doesn't have any kids yet, his Price might never exist. It's a risk he'll have to take. Without him, Ghost isn't sure who he'd be, if he'd still be around, anything. 

Without him, he wouldn't have met Darragh.

His ring remains around Ghost's finger, so if running into the fight changed anything at all, it hasn't done so yet. Maybe the MacKenzie clan went after him in the past, too. The other past. Or —

Maybe he really is locked in a padded cell and drooling onto his chin.

Ghost's mouth does water as they approach the hall, fragrant scents of roasted meat and vegetables floating through the corridor to meet them.

"Why did you say you're a Fraser instead of a MacKenzie?"

John doesn't stop in his tracks, but the question does phase him, if only for how long they've walked quietly side by side.

"I'm no' a MacKenzie. My ma was. Paying close attention, are ye?" he asks, eyeing Ghost and badly hiding a grin. "Won't do ye any good at convincing them that yer no spy."

"Mhm. Getting shot to save your arse wasn't enough for that," Ghost looks away, then back in time to meet John's gaze, "bit pointless, since they've told me enough to buy Captain Price's favour."

"Is that so? What about my favour, then?"

"The bullet not enough for you, either?"

"Appreciated, without question," John nods, blinking slowly like he's trying to think of a good comeback, but their banter comes to an end at the corridor's end.

Somewhat regretfully, at least on Ghost's part. Less for no longer talking to John and more for the continued bullshit. They didn't trust him but told him openly that John has a price on his head. And a Price after his arse. It doesn't make any bloody sense to Ghost, the bits shared and the larger story held back, the fake name when Ghost at least knows about John's relation to these men. There has to be —

"Come wi' me," John elbows him as they stand in the entrance of the crowded hall, not festive but filled with people.

None that Ghost recognises as he follows the kid past the benches and tables, apart from at the long table at the end, horizontal to overlook the others. Lachlan in the centre, lofty like a king, with Dougal to his left, and a woman Ghost assumes to be his wife to his right. Murtagh and Calan sit closer to the end, with two empty seats between them.

It's not that the entire hall grows quiet as they walk through it, and Ghost can't understand the few clear words he hears through the chatter, but no one bothers to hide their staring. He doesn't often feel uncomfortable being looked at—knows his height and mug inspire stares—though he was used to the privacy of his mask or balaclava before. Here and now, with the implicit meaning of it, he badly wishes for shadows to disappear into.

"Everyone thinks yer well bonnie," John grins over his shoulder, "pay them no mind."

"You saying I'm not?" Ghost deadpans back, resisting the sudden and insane urge to reach out and tug on tiny bun John tied only part of his hair into, the rest long but too short for it.

Either John doesn't hear him over the noise or doesn't deign to reply, and instead of worrying himself with wondering if he said something wrong, Ghost wipes the twitch of a smile from his face. The table is up on the platform that housed Lachlan's chair this morning, and the laird rises to his feet as soon as they step onto it.

"Yer late," he admonishes his nephew, but John only makes a face at him in return, squeezing Calan's shoulder before he sits down next to Murtagh.

Leaving Ghost a spot between himself and Dougal.

"My fault," he offers to Lachlan's appraising look when he walks up to the brothers, "I'm not the fastest learner."

"Aye, well. Worth taking yer time. Ye wear it well," Lachlan reaches over Dougal's head to pat his arm, prosthetic heavy and stiff at his side. "Dinnae worry, lad. I'm no' making some big introduction. Having ye up here means enough, and yer free to go soon as yer done filling yer stomach. Or stay as long as ye like. Have some whisky to settle yer nerves."

He's evidently had some himself, but Lachlan has been the more agreeable of the two during their other conversations as well. It's not even that he didn't seem all that sincere before, but he's looser now, as if he truly believes things are settled. Maybe they are, in his mind, but Ghost isn't dumb enough to let his guard down so easily. Nor is he suddenly unaware of what this means, the display of friendliness to cement he's not just here but welcomed as part of the — not clan itself, but something like it.

A guest, but more. It's in every stare, all the nudged elbows, the whispered and out loud Gaelic he couldn't make out even if they spoke English. Lachlan nods at him as they take their seats, and Dougal takes the liberty of filling his cup from a large jug. 

It takes a lot and very little at all for Ghost to feel out of sorts, depending completely on professional versus personal, but this is somehow both.

And with panic constricting around his throat, it clicks in his head. Why the switch hasn't flipped entirely, why it's been so hard to focus, why he's been heart instead of brain for most of this. The last time his failure meant losing family. He's not being tortured, no careful cuts and quick stabs and searing heat, no drowning on land or suffocating below earth. 

No crooked teeth in a crooked smile that haunts his own face now. All of it stayed, because Ghost did.

All of it, but not them.

And losing Price was different, but his fault all the same.

"Eat something, lad," Dougal says from beside him, pulling him back to here and now instead of the present, the future, his past. "I'll not have it said that we're mistreating ye."

They're not, not really. His own room with a warm bed and clean clothes, medical care as far as it goes, kind people and a choice instead of a cell. He may not be allowed to leave, but if he didn't have somewhere else to be, staying here could be far worse.

Ghost piles some food onto his plate from the serving trays within reach, roasted lamb and fresh bread, carrots and onion and pickled coleslaw. A better meal than they usually served in the mess hall, at least by look and smell. Comes back to himself, much as he still struggles to accept reality. 

The fragility of it. 

The other diners have mostly gone back to their own meals and conversation, a steady thrum of Gaelic with all its unfamiliar sounds. Even on either side of him, John's talking to Murtagh and Dougal to his brother, no English or words that sound similar enough to make something out. It leaves him time to think while he eats. Which he would, if his head was clearer. But the noise and people and scents, even the thick air itself, press in on his skull, building into a headache he feels down in his teeth from the tension. It doesn't allow for much else but focusing on his meal and the promise of leaving early, finding fresh air and some dark, quiet peace. 

For the best, since thinking isn't getting him the calm focus he needs and relies on. When he can find it.  

Ghost sips his whisky, strong and intensely flavoured, warming him when he's already too hot. But the alcohol settles him down some, too, and a few sips later his headache hasn't disappeared, but the great hall narrows down to the table, to the voices on either side of him, to John's thigh brushing against his own and pressing in for a moment. He doesn't stop talking to Murtagh and Calan, doesn't turn to him for a second, but Ghost appreciates what he assumes to be a gesture. A nice one, even.

"So, where'd ye lose the ear?" Dougal suddenly does turn his attention to Ghost, though it's not unexpected that he would use the opportunity to dig into Ghost's story.

One that he hasn't built, at least not thoroughly enough to go into detail. 

"Overseas," Ghost replies vaguely, trying to think of any reason he could use to explain having been a soldier, but not any more. As far as he's aware—which is not at all—they couldn't just hand in their resignation, either. Or could they? "Should've ducked quicker."

Any slower and that bullet would've hit dead centre between his eyes. His mask may be Kevlar like his helmet, but it's too thin to stop most rounds. 

Let alone one from a sniper.

Dougal laughs at that, nodding appreciatively and hearty enough that Ghost feels John's attention shift their way.

"Aye, I ken the problem. Or dodged, more like," he points to a spot on his ribs that Ghost assumes is a scar under his shirt, "gutted me like a fish, tha' bastard did, but I paid him back double." The man pauses—still grinning at the memory—to drink, during which John says something in Gaelic that has him narrowing his eyes over his cup. "Remember ye gasping on yer back, lad. Old man or no, I can still beat ye," he reminds John, his tone darker than his face, and John laughs in response.

"Where'd ye fight, then? France? Or the Americas?" he addresses Ghost, clearly not bothering to argue the matter with his uncle.

The latter is his safer bet, Ghost thinks; the further, the better. He really should've gone to his history classes.

"The Americas," he responds, taking a sip of whisky to buy himself time, "years ago."

"Hung up yer red coat and musket, did ye?" Dougal looks sceptical of the idea, and Ghost can't blame him, not just because he's English and how they met, but his appearance doesn't exactly scream 'peacefully retired'.

Though he is. Was? Will be.

Saying he was dismissed might be more believable—though he's fairly sure the crown cared less about war crimes compared to his own time, which isn't saying much—but wouldn't help his story much. Something approaching the truth, then.

"I did. My father died, left my mum on her own. Came back to care for her," Ghost lies; all three of them died, and he didn't even come back to handle their funeral. "Took over the shop for a while, until she passed, too."

He has to be careful to keep things closer to the truth before he's telling too many lies to keep track of, but Dougal looks like he believes him. At least enough not to unravel the story he spun. For now. Good luck to both of them on trying to prove anything, though.

"And now yer here. With yer lass and her da'. Supposedly waiting for ye when we get back," Dougal drinks, too, but doesn't go on to make a point.

"Depends on when," true enough, just not in the way it sounds, "any word on that?"

On when they mean to kill Price. If Ghost gets lucky, maybe he can prevent it and travel back in the same trip, somehow. Things could line up just right, though he doubts that they will. 

Dougal grins, but it's not the same—real—one he sported earlier on. Amused but darker. Not quite sadistic, certainly not kind or warm.

"Not yet. Unless yer all healed up in the few hours since I last saw ye," he points out before draining his cup and refilling not just his own, but Ghost's, too. "Even if ye were, my brother told ye already. We'll need to plan, gather men, make preparations."

"The fewer, the better," Ghost points out in turn, "men, not preparations. Less chance of miscommunication or someone getting cold feet."

Dougal snorts. "Don't ye worry about strategy or cold feet. I ken each of these men like kin. Most of them are, in one way or another. My brother or I ask any one of them for aid, they give it. Blindly if they must."

More threats, indirectly and unnecessary. Ghost meant it, the advice, but he shouldn't have mentioned it anyway; the more men Dougal will lead on the mission, the less chance he has to succeed carrying out the plan before they're noticed. And Ghost will be long gone by then. Hopefully to a world that hasn't changed, to his waiting fiancé and the life they'll start together. Continue, really. All of this will fade to nothing but a fever dream, vivid like his nightmares, just as real, and growing just as distant.

He's not that much of an optimist, but it's a nice thought, smooth sailing.

Ghost could mention that he knows of bigger things on the horizon for them, but it'd be the wrong thing to say. Instead, he pretends to be as schooled as Dougal wants him to be, and sips some more whisky. Whether he got used to the taste or it's from how it pairs with his food or even for the muddy and dream-like memory of passing the flask back and forth with John, it's almost good. It settles him down some, but he minds how much he drinks. 

With his stomach filled and the men on either side of him back to other conversations, Ghost doesn't have much reason to stay for appearance's sake.

"Thanks for having me at your table," he directs past Dougal to Lachlan; not raised well but managing to scrounge up some manners when he needs them, "I'm heading to bed."

"Aye, it's been a long day, I'm sure," Lachlan nods, raising his cup to him, "get some rest, lad. I trust that ye can find yer way by now?"

Ghost nods back, though he doesn't intend to go there right away. He stands up, and at the last moment decides to take his whisky with him. No one seems bothered or reacts to it at all, but he catches John staring after him with a frown that only deepens when their eyes meet.

Briefly, because Ghost keeps walking. 

Off the dais into the rest of the great hall, as crowded as it was when John and he got here. It's strange to think that he only arrived at the castle around this time last night. That he spent all day astride a horse, holding onto John to keep them both from falling off, so exhausted that by the end his screaming muscles were silent. He should've paid more attention to the path they travelled, not let his attention and world narrow down to John in his arms, his voice in his ears, his scent in his nose. 

Ghost remembers little of the journey, but he remembers that.

He steps into the crisp night air, and sucks in a breath to clear his head. Another, realising that while he isn't drunk, he's not as sober as he thought, either.

And caring less than he should, he takes another long swallow of whisky before heading left, in the direction of the bridge. He's not planning to cross it, but he does walk closer than he did this afternoon on his way to the stables and pasture. It's unguarded and wide open, arching slightly over the water to meet the shore. His heart tells him to try, tells him that everyone's eating or off to bed, that surely no one would notice until morning, and if they did, they wouldn't care enough to go after him. He could even take the time to steal a horse.

But he does know better. And he's not alone, though whoever it is that's keeping an eye on him, keeps their distance as well. 

Near-soundless and downwind. A hunter, if not a soldier, but likely both. It's in Ghost's best interest not to—and he's hurt, much weaker than he'd like to be—but he's tempted to show them what it's like to be the prey. One on one, Ghost would still bet on himself over most of the men he saw inside. Dougal would prove a challenge, older but a hard man. Lachlan could be, but Ghost doubts it. He looks strong, but unused to a real fight, one-handed or otherwise. 

The only other he'd consider a threat is John, but not in his current state. Which works in reverse for each of them, Ghost is more than aware. And yet they seem to believe him taking that bullet was part of some elaborate plot to infiltrate the clan. 

Maybe it's not that, only that he ran into the wrong group at the wrong time. Ghost figures they must believe him, as logic would have it. They just can't risk him yapping.

Whoever John is, the price on his head is only part of the story.

It's time for himself to think more practically instead of letting fear guide him. He needs to solidify his backstory, get better acquainted with the castle and what seems to be the inner group within even the fighting men of the clan, and plan. Escape, or stay until the last moment. It'll depend on how fast he heals up enough to fight and how soon they'll go after Price. In the meantime, he'll try to find out more about the cairns—and if the brooch John gave him is connected—along with this Price, mostly if he has any offspring. 

He might not even be a direct ancestor at all, though Ghost doubts that. He remembers little from everything that happened, but he'll never forget the confusion and chill down his spine at seeing that face again, almost a year since the last time he did. Different, but the exact same. 

He'd know Price anywhere. They were friends for over fifteen years. Friends doesn't begin to describe that relationship. Half professional and half deeper than any other bond. Ghost misses him. Not every day, but only because he can't bear to think of him that often. When he does, it's never just the good times that come back. 

Some days, all he sees is the final moment, the there and the not. The blood's only an afterthought.

Memories threaten to overtake him, but Ghost refuses. Hard as he can. 

He looks out over the bridge and unobstructed path to freedom, and brings his cup to his lips again. His shadow remains. Ghost can't see or hear him, but his body tells him exactly where he stands, watching him. It won't be Dougal himself, that'd be giving Ghost too much credit, nor his nephew. So either Murtagh or Calan, most likely. Calan, he could beat one-handed and blindfolded, but Ghost doesn't mean to fight and Dougal knows that. It makes sense, sending an Englishman after one of his own, maybe bond and gain his trust. 

If it weren't for the fact that Calan made it clear that he dislikes him from the start, and does not seem inclined to pretend otherwise. Under Dougal's orders, he might.

The kid looks about the same age as John, a little rough around the edges in the way that comes with growing up fast and hard. Difference of nearly three hundred years or not, Ghost knows what that looks like. If he cared, which he doesn't, he'd wonder how the fuck the bloke ended up here. He and John seem close, but Ghost doesn't know enough about John to say if that counts for anything.

Either way, he's not looking for a fight or a conversation.

Ghost sips his whisky again, scanning the land past the bridge, wide open field turning to a hill, the treeline bordering it. It's not too dark, but his eye remains too swollen to open and the grey-blue toned world doesn't help him estimate distances. What he does see, if barely, is a dirt road. Or at least worn tracks, travelled enough to be distinct from here. It doesn't lead up the hill, but out from the bridge along the coast in both directions.

North and south, roughly.

The wrong way for where he's headed, eventually, but to Ghost it suggests — people, mostly. Villages or work, and for a castle this size he expects farmlands nearby to feed its people, but they could get supplies delivered, too. It's not relevant apart from noting he should avoid anything but east, though travelling through the forest will slow him down and make navigation harder.

He's not sure how long he's been standing here to contemplate this and more, but his guard shifts on his feet, bored or impatient or cold. Ghost smiles to himself, relishing the breeze on his still-heated skin. Over his knees, too. Up, slightly, to cool his thighs under the thick wool. It's a strange sensation, both exposed and covered well enough. Not entirely unpleasant, but he can't see the merits of fighting in a kilt over trousers.

He needs a piss, which will certainly be easier to manage than getting his breeches open. Not here, though.

Ghost takes another sip, and briefly considers if he should warn the man watching him that he'd like some privacy, but, like Ghost, he'll be used to the sight of a man searching out a wall or tree. He turns left again, in the direction of the path leading around the outside of the keep, including the garden he hasn't visited yet.

His bladder urges him to lengthen his stride now that he acknowledged his need, and Ghost suppresses a shiver at the imminent relief. He's not planning to piss in the garden, he's not an animal, and doesn't go far along the outer wall before stopping and turning to it. 

His shadow stops a second later, just around the corner from the sound of his last footstep.

Ghost ignores him, switching his cup to his other hand to hike his kilt up and expose his bare cock to the cool air. It twitches hard, swelling from the combined sensation of having it out this easily and how badly he needs to piss, and Ghost doesn't bother aiming himself when he lets go.

He can't help his soft groan at the relief, a little drunk and pissing hard against the bricks, cock bouncing on another twitch. Not a second later, the sudden sound of a second stream joins his own, and Ghost looks up from his cock without stopping.

There, to his left and cast in shadow, Young John has his lip clamped between his teeth and his head tilted back, pissing just as hard. Ghost focuses on himself. Tempted as he is to stare John down.

The thirty seconds or so it takes to finish stretch out, and his cock hangs half-stiff and heavy when he's finally done, but Ghost shakes the last few drops from his tip and drops his kilt to cover himself again. John already has, but he hasn't moved closer.

Fucking hell, fine. 

"They sent you out to keep an eye on me?"

He might well have got an eyeful, if he cared to look. Ghost didn't, and it's a struggle to refocus his gaze as John pushes off the wall and saunters over.

"I volunteered, actually. Figured ye'd be less likely to mind seeing me," he bites his lip again, coming to a stop just an arm's length away.

"Spying on the spy," Ghost replies nonsensically, but Johnny laughs, soft yet bright as the bloody stars in the domed sky over them.

"Aye, turning the tables. Ye mind sharing tha'?"

He motions to Ghost's cup, more strands of hair escaping his bun to curl against his cheekbones, and Ghost hands it over. Watches him drink, too, steady eye contact over the rim.

"How old are you?"

The question raises John's eyebrows, and he swallows slowly before answering. "Twenty-five."

There was no reason to ask that, and Ghost has nothing to say in response. He doesn't do friendships, not really. Small talk shouldn't be this hard.

Ghost nods, like it means anything significant, and declines the cup when John offers it back to him. "Had enough. I'm off to bed."

A new day with a clear head, maybe a way out. He doesn't have much hope of waking up where he should be, but it'd be nice. Maybe he shouldn't. John is well within reach and unguarded; it'd be easy to incapacitate him or worse, take a horse, be on his way. It's the perfect time for it, if he disregards everything else.

"Ye hate being here that much?" John reads his mind, or what has to be plainly visible on his face, despite Ghost's—drunk—attempt to shield it. "She'll wait for ye. Don't risk not returning at all."

Manipulation or not, his words stab into Ghost's too-unguarded heart, and he plucks the whisky from John's hand.

"If she can. The longer I'm here, the longer she'll have to think I abandoned her." Darragh won't think that. He can't. Christ, please, he has to know that Ghost would never leave him willingly. He has to. "Have you ever loved someone?"

John wavers, and Ghost watches him consider at least one person—maybe more—before he shakes his head. "No. Not — not like tha'. Not yet."

It sounds like a question, like he's unsure that he will, and twenty-five is plenty old enough to have found someone. But Ghost drinks from the cup and hands it back to him instead of doing what he should. John presses it to his lips as they start walking down the path at the same time, not back to the courtyard, but following it to the gardens and whatever else lies at the back of the keep.

"Took a long time for me," Ghost offers, as if he's the right person for a bloody pep-talk, "didn't think I could. Not like that."

They're quiet for a moment, walking and sharing the whisky with small sips to stretch it, and without looking himself, Ghost can feel John's eyes on him. Wondering how anyone would love him back, most likely, though Ghost looks a little better when his nose isn't broken, his eye not swollen shut, half his face not black and blue.

"Was it at first sight, then? One look when yer heart kent?"

Ghost snorts, both at how John sounds—young, and yearning for it, which isn't funny—and his memory of meeting Darragh. Maybe his body knew, on some level, but his heart remained blissfully unaware.

"No. We didn't get along at first," he can't tell John how it started as a physical thing, as bruising Darragh's hips and holding him down, a fight for dominance they couldn't get enough of, even if they both knew that Darragh stood no chance of winning. Games he doesn't usually play because people are fragile, but they just worked. Liking him didn't take long at all, and loving him grew slowly while Ghost wasn't even looking. "But we couldn't stay away, either. Like a craving, an urge."

Through his extended silence as Ghost got lost in thought, John only waited. He hums now, like contemplating it or trying to fit one of his own relationships in the outline to compare, radiating heat at his side. Arms brushing as they walk, both a little unsteady on the path. 

"Did ye - before her, I didnae mean - only. Uh," he stumbles over his words, trying to ask something without asking it outright, clearly, “aye, ye ken what I mean.”

Not until that. Surely people fucked outside of marriage in this time, too, but maybe not. Or not John, and he doesn't want to suggest that Ghost would besmirch his girl's honour.

He squints at John through his working eye. "You haven't? Anyone?"

Even in the relative dark, John's ears nearly glow like red-hot burning embers, and his flush spreads to his cheeks, down his neck and throat and the hairy skin of his chest peeking out of his shirt.

Fucking hell. He can't be serious.

"I've done stuff," John defends himself, literally a bloody fucking blushing virgin, and Ghost struggles to think how they even got here, "just — well, ye cannae risk a bairn before vows, ye ken? And I dinnae wish to wed someone unless it's for love. Or someone I can learn to love."

That changes things, and Ghost can't make fun of him. As much as he'd like to, if only to stop thinking about — it's none of his business, any of it. All of it.

"Your uncles pressuring you?" Ghost asks him instead, shifting away from the other topic as they reach the edge of the gardens.

They're not in bloom, and not decorative as Ghost assumed. Instead, plots span from the side of the castle and spread out some distance, wrapping around the corner to continue past a small greenhouse. Vegetables and herbs, as far as Ghost can tell. Together, they walk to a low stone wall, beyond which it's not far before a short cliff side leads to the lake. John hasn't answered him, but shrugs one shoulder as he sits down, holding the cup up in invitation.

"Not much," he finally replies, and Ghost joins him if only so he doesn't have to look at those bright blues staring up at him, or the remnants of John's remaining flush, now only high on his cheekbones — a little drunk, too. "Not now, either. But soon, aye."

Ghost doesn't know what to say to that. It's not in his nature to offer comfort, tell him it'll be fine or that it's just duty, or to point out the myriad of girls who can't keep their eyes off him. A head turner, this boy. It's nearly impossible to believe he's so inexperienced. Ghost doesn't mean to think about it again, but Johnny makes this small, dissatisfied noise, and it's impossible not to picture how easy it'd be to get different ones out of him.

Not — not by Ghost, but some girl he likes. If not Rosie, another.

He hums in response, a bit late, and nudges him to take the whisky back after having a sip. "No one caught your eye?"

"No' to marry," John almost pouts, and Ghost looks away from him and those pink ears going hot again where they peek out of his hair.

Someone did catch his eye for the other stuff, evidently. Christ, he can't be playing — what, dad? School counsellor? John's too old for that, but they sure as hell aren't mates, either. If they were, Ghost would tell him to just go stick his dick in someone, and his problems will seem a lot less heavy after.

He needs a bloody fag, but glances at John again, gaze sticking to watch him drink and swallow, the bob of his throat and the wetness of his lips.

"Give it time," is all the advice Ghost has for him, and he briefly presses their legs together before he stands up. "Do some more stuff, you'll feel better. Night."

"Aye, soon as I have full use of my arm again," John chuckles, not an ounce as affected by the conversation as Ghost — also isn't, "can't even have a wank right now."

Not something Ghost needs to know about. At all.

"I'm sure you can find someone to see to that," he replies, unable to keep from grinning at the idea of him going around in search of a handjob, all pouting and puppy-eyed, like the ones he's blinking up at Ghost with. "Or use your left hand."

No fucking need to say that. None. But John bites his lip on a grin, like he's picturing it, and Ghost tries very hard not to.

"Aye, yer a lifesaver," John replies after a beat, much too pleased with himself for the joke, tilting up like he expects a bloody pat on the head for it.

Ghost holds back from doing just that, but nods his goodbye before finally making himself leave. Far too reluctantly, as if he has any intention of letting this go anywhere, as if John would want that. It's less easy to ignore his guilt for briefly thinking it at all; sliding a hand up John's kilt to touch him, wank him off quick and dirty. See that mouth drop open and those fuckin' eyes slide shut, pretending. 

Briefly. 

He loves Darragh. That's enough. John could beg and plead for him to touch, and Ghost wouldn't hesitate to say no. He didn't know what it was like to love so fully before him. To be loved like that in turn.

Some boy can't compare to the bond they share. 

Chapter Text

۝

Chapter Nine

The way back to his room passes in a bit of a blur, not stumbling but not walking entirely straight, either. Mind running, searching for quiet. 

Ghost has no idea of the time when he gets inside, but fishes his cigarettes and lighter out of where he stowed them to light a few candles. He leaves the pack on the windowsill to first wash his face and brush his teeth. 

Not first. He starts by taking his boots off, then the thick, knee-high socks to feel the floorboards under his feet. The ritual of ending a long day, shedding layers like he could peel away his skin. The other version of this is not ritual at all except for the motion of filling a glass, throwing it back, and filling it again. 

His kilt follows, the brooch safely put on the cupboard to inspect in daylight, his belt along with the folded plaid over a chair. Ghost keeps his shirt on in the chilly room, but he's not freezing. Nor is he feverish, he's pretty sure, though the alcohol coursing through his veins might dim it enough that he doesn't notice. He does notice the deep, aching pain in his shoulder when he washes his face by the basin—filled with fresh water some time between now and the last time he was here to wash up—but neither side of the wound seems to be bleeding. Rosie brought him a toothbrush and not paste but powder to brush with, similar enough to the little toothpaste tablets he's used before to get the picture. 

By the time he's done, he's a little less drunk, too. Not sober by any means, but he can look around without the room turning with him, and he feels more in control of himself. Not like him to be unable to hold his liquor. 

At least he didn't trip over his story while talking to John. And strange as the conversation veered thanks to his lowered inhibitions, or John's, it was nothing to really bat an eye at. In the military, lone wolf or not, he's heard plenty talk about pricks and how much or little they get used. Not much about virginity unless it's about the taking of it, though. 

He grins to himself as he lights a fag by the window, stuck thinking about the wrong thing. 

Ghost lost his own at a much younger age, mildly disastrous for both him and the girl it was with. She was a year older, and boasted about having done it three whole times, which for some reason was impressive to Ghost. He came within three thrusts, and was not invited to try again. Wasn't too interested either. Soft curves and bouncing tits weren't quite what they're cracked up to be. 

At least the times after went better by miles. Also with Miles. No love there, just gritted teeth and bruises, learning what really got his dick hard beyond a warm body to bury it in. 

In just his shirt and the candlelit room, he somehow feels the time period even more than trying to fit in the wrong size clothes, or wearing a kilt—or without electricity—since those feel more like putting on a costume. There's no one to perform for right now, yet here he is, continuing the charade. He's only been at the castle for a day. It's hard to fathom, to wrap his mind around. 

Part of him still wants to pretend it's nothing but a dream, one of those long ones that feel like a lifetime passed in those few hours. 

Little actually happened, but his head feels thick with all the new intel he needs to sort and keep track of, names, faces, his story and theirs, the agreement they landed on, the plans he'll have to make. He's not sure if it's John or the wrong Price at the centre of it all, at least pertaining to the story here. His own revolves around making the journey back home, and how to best achieve that.

He hopes that Darragh trusts he wouldn't leave him. That if Maud or Nora shared any suspicions, he'll stay put and wait, or at least not try to find him. He can go anywhere in the world in their time, and he'd still only be a phone call away. Here, he'd be a needle in a haystack. 

Ghost hopes he'll forgive him when they next meet. And, a small voice in the back of his mind adds, that he'll move on without pain if they never do, if this turns out to be the end. A one way-street.

He sighs, then sucks in more smoke from the fag he's been itching for since he stepped outside after dinner. Doubly so while talking to John.

And speak of the bloody devil.

Down below, straddling the same wall they sat on together on the other side of the castle, John sits looking out over the lake. He looks a bit like a stranded sailor from here, though Ghost can't see his face. Forlorn in posture, a breeze tugging at his hair like fingers carding through the loose, soft curls, his shirt billowing when the breeze blows harder.

Romance novel hero shite, Ghost snorts to himself, smoke itching through his nose on the way out.

He keeps his eyes on John as he leans on the windowsill despite the sharp pain it shoots through his shoulder. Punishment, maybe. For that thought and many others. Not meaning it doesn't change that he's noticed him. That he's looking at him and almost hoping that John might turn around and catch him in it.

It's not a lie that he doesn't want John like that, interested cock or not. What's more difficult to deal with is that he won't have to fake the urge to be his bloody mate, eager as everyone else.

Ghost takes a drag, well aware of how fucking dumb he sounds. But he doesn't do friendship, really. Coworkers, brothers in bloody arms, loosening hierarchy and ranks, casual mates to share a pint with — even the last is rare, actually. Prefers to drink on his own, keep his peace or find it in the bottle.

He liked his teammates on the 141, but he's not sure that he'd call them friends. Moose, maybe. Quiet and hardworking, deadly as shite. Precise. Good traits, admirable, but still not quite there. In truth, in all its edgy and dramatic glory, Ghost doesn't think he's capable of truly feeling it. Same as most other shite.

He considers Darragh a friend, in a way, but they've always been more, too. Their relationship wasn't a linear progression like that. First meeting, getting to know each other, becoming mates, trying out more, falling in love. It was disdain and desire, turned lust and respect, turned into aching to see him again. Ghost still can't pin down the moment where it changed into love, where all their stolen moments and shared pains and fucking all of it suddenly melded. All he knows that for each time they parted ways, he saw with sudden clarity how much he'd hurt missing him. 

Fuck, Ghost misses him. His heart aches as if reaching out and trying to find its counterpart, and Ghost doesn't cry easy, but blinks his eyes dry now. They're separated by two hundred and eighty years. And that's if he hasn't just lost his mind. It feels impossible, accepting this, but it's all he can do and he has to do something.

He should've let this wrong Price shoot John, a bloody stranger who meant nothing to him. Even recognizing that the man wearing Price's face wasn't the man he knew, Ghost should've ignored his misgivings. It wasn't his problem to deal with.

He trusts three people in the world. Trusted. It's not Price. Whoever this captain is, whatever resemblance hear bears, he's not Price.

Ghost can't call him a friend, it doesn't come close. But in the moments where their history was a quiet creek instead of a rushing undercurrent, they were friends, too.

And he can't even think it, can't allow himself to feel just how much, but he misses him, too. Has been missing him, a constant state of it. Price was the only one anchoring him to life for fifteen bloody years. The only one who knew him, all of him. The one who showed him a path to take. Ghost is not a good man, but he's only a man at all thanks to him. Barely, at times, but here.

He was the anchor point.

It can't be true or work like that, if it works like anything at all, but Ghost can't help the thought that follows. What if he landed here because he was thinking about him? If all of this is as real as it seems, it's a pretty damn big coincidence to end up in a time with a different Price, wearing the same face.

What it means, he doesn't know.

But he smokes and looks down at Johnny, trying to see the right path forward. Between him, his uncles, the deal, the captain, and the cairns, there has to be an answer. As if anything ever works out so cleanly. As if he's not playing with magic, for lack of a better word for things he doesn't understand.

Playing with fire, where one wrong spark can lead to burning it all down.

Young John isn't all that young, but he's small from up here. Small compared to Ghost, too, but not objectively. He turns around as if he can fucking hear Ghost's thoughts, but slowly, as if debating whether to get up or not. There's no way he can spot Ghost from down there, but Ghost hopes he does. He can't explain or excuse it, but he hopes he does.

Unmoored and craving, in a way he can't put into words, Ghost wants more of him. He knows how it sounds, hates himself for the implication, but it's not what he means, part of it or not.

He's drunk, but not that drunk, and lost, but not that lost. It's not sex he's looking for, if he's looking for anything but a way out. 

Ghost doesn't need to slap himself out of it physically, but he takes a drag of his fag slowly, in and out in a haze of blue-tinged smoke and loneliness he's not used to bothering him. Below, John stretches as he stands, and Ghost can almost smell him. That's — he needs to go the fuck to bed.

As he takes the last drag of his cigarette, John looks up.

Neither of them moves, their eyes locked, as intense as if they're right in front of each other. A moment and nothing more, but it feels impossibly long before John raises his hand, waving with nothing more than a curl of his fingers. He walks off before Ghost can wave back, stupidly immobile and wondering what the hell his problem is.

Aside from the already endless list of them.

Ghost stubs his cig out, but shoves the butt back into the pack instead of throwing it out, just in case. He doesn't put off going to sleep any longer, closing the window and shutting out his emotions. A jumbled mess turning into physical pain right in the centre of his chest, in a knife slice from there up to the back of his throat to his tongue, letting him taste steel or the salty iron of blood.

Theatrics.

He blows the few candles he lit out before getting into bed naked, but not fucking hurt by anything but a boot to the face and a bullet through his shoulder. Caught one for the wrong man, and almost a year too late. Or two hundred and seventy-nine years too early. He doesn't regret it, though.

Not enough.

۝

4 November 1744

This morning, Ghost woke to Edward dropping off the clothes Rosie must have spent her evening adjusting for him. No need to wear the kilt again, thankfully. It was more comfortable than he'd assumed, but he does prefer a more secure way of covering his arse.

Especially since he's on a horse now and nearly saw two sets of non-horse nut sacks as the others mounted up. Not John's, who's neither on the horse with him nor along for the trek into a nearby town. Ghost hasn't seen him since last night, but they left early and packed breakfast for the road.

It's a test, he's well aware.

No reason Dougal would send what's either the inner circle or John's mates specifically to run errands, less of one to take him along. Dougal didn't join them himself, but Ghost rides bracketed by Murtagh and Calan, as if he couldn't fight both of them even in his current state. The swelling in his eye went down enough for it to open, and his fever is as good as gone. His shoulder's still fucked and, less crucially, he can tell already that he'll have another or bigger bump in his nose, but he could fight.

They're not unarmed, though. Ghost is. The biggest risk isn't in disarming them before incapacitating them, it's how many will come after him once he does. And despite rationality winning out, if Dougal were a smarter—or more intuitive—man, he would've sent John along with them. So far, he's the one accounting for most of Ghost's impulse control. Somehow.

Accounting for the lack of it, too. Lashing out and asking questions. 

Ghost focuses on his surroundings amidst the conversation he's not a part of. It's beautiful here, riding along the coast with the castle so far at their backs that it's gone from view by now. Ghost can see the vague shapes of more islands in the distance across the lake, but no boats or ships on the horizon. It's light now, but it hasn't been for long, and the remnants of morning mist swirl around their horse's legs.

The one they lent him is a stubborn and slow old beast, with tufts of hair standing up in his red coat, continually tempted to stop and graze. Despite it, and Ghost's admittedly little experience with horses, Jasper listens to his name well enough. Not to Ghost clicking his tongue, or shortening the reins, or pressing his heels into his flanks, and he responds only with great reluctance, but manageable. It's just about the only thing Ghost said since they mounted up and the other two fell into conversation like he's not even here.

Which suits him well, though English would be preferable to glean more information.

What matters is that if he passes this test, most likely he'll gain a bit of trust. Not much, since stepping between a pistol and John wasn't enough, but maybe enough to let him ride a horse that's not twice his own age. It's obvious why they saddled Jasper for him. Funny, if he didn't seriously have to wonder if the animal has enough life left in him to carry him back.

It's barely an exaggeration.

Despite the other two talking past him in Gaelic, Ghost doesn't miss either their occasional direct glances to him, nor the word they use to indicate him. Not his name, but one he heard a few times while travelling with Darragh, and here, whispered in the hall.

Sassenach.

Even if he wasn't familiar, their tone says enough. What's more, Calan must have been living up here for a long time to speak the language and not be considered one himself. At least not when compared with Ghost. He retains his own accent, in Gaelic, too, but while his words don't reach that same strong guttural sound as Murtagh's, they have no trouble understanding each other. Either it's another test, saying stuff to see if he reacts and understands, or they truly don't give a fuck.

The occasional disdain on their faces is a subtle hint.

For all Ghost knows—'kens', John's voice whispers in his ear, uninvited and raspy—they're discussing their shopping list. Supplies and errands, is all they told him. Not many of them, since they didn't bring a cart or anything but saddlebags to carry whatever they're after back.

In any case, if Ghost does decide to make a run for it, he'll have to steal one of their horses. Jasper veers to a patch of vibrant grass, and Ghost almost has the heart to just let the old man graze.

"Jasper," he admonishes gently instead, guiding him straight again, "come on. Not too much further."

Ghost shoots a questioning look over at Murtagh to affirm, who nods. "Aye, not far. Ye got a way wi' him. Calan picked him to have a wee bit of fun at yer expense."

"Oi, why do you have to blame me? Dougal said not Rourke, I picked not Rourke. Dougal said make sure he doesn't ride off, I made sure that he won't," Calan defends himself, not at all vehemently and rolling his eyes for good measure, "besides, no one would miss him."

Now that's just mean. Jasper may not be the most useful or energetic of horses, but he's not all bad. 

He's not great.

"John would," Murtagh argues, "loves that horse like an old stuffed toy. And ye ken just as well that he's too old for riding out this way."

Great, his bloody horse really will die before they make it back. Ghost can handle a long hike just fine, and it's just a horse. Still.

"How much further?" Ghost asks, patting Jasper's neck for trudging along despite his misgivings or proximity to death.

"Not far," Murtagh repeats himself, cocking his eyebrow as if daring Ghost to ask again, dad driving the car on a road trip.

Ghost assumes; it's not like he has the actual experience. If he did, it wouldn't be too far off from this. Calan isn't playing the role of mum, though — and he sure as fuck isn't Tommy. Six years' difference is a lot at that age, but he'd be thirty-two now. Ghost didn't get to see him reach fifteen.

He's not dumb enough to assume he can, but can't stop himself from wondering that if he could figure out how the time travel worked, maybe he could go back and fix it. Save him, and Price too. It's not impossible, not more than ending up here. There'd have to be some way to choose a date, things might get complicated with the possibility of running into himself, but some nights—in the early days—it was the only thought in his head. On repeat, whispered and screamed in a voice he stopped recognizing as his own.

'Let me go back, try again, save him, save him, save him.'

If not that, the dreams.

Losing Price was different, but those were the same. His failure, always. Punishment. Maybe this is, too. Or maybe, irrational as the thought is, he's here to save this Price, repay his debt.

It's the only thing that makes some sense about all of it. His turn to leave a gaping hole in the world, because if he's right, it's unlikely he'll return to it. To Darragh. The world at large wouldn't give a shite, but he would.

Ghost doesn't know what to believe or act on, but he has few options other than following along until he gains some clarity and regains some strength. Maybe that's cowardice, too.

The scenery changed around him while Ghost sunk into thought, at least on his right-hand side. They're still travelling along the coast, but it's flatter here. A valley in the rocky and mountainous landscape, put to use as farm soil. He can't tell what crops they grow, but sees at least two farms with matching barns, and a mill between them. Grain, then. At least in part.

That's not where they're going, though. In the distance, the edges of a village appear from the mist.

"Fodhamuir," Murtagh enlightens him, "and dinnae think anyone there will have a mind to aid ye. These are MacKenzie lands."

"Mind telling me where those end?" Ghost jokes back, sort of.

Surprisingly, Murtagh laughs. "Aye, an' I'll draw ye a map while I'm at it. Ye ken Dougal's put us up to this. Prove yer not likely to go running off, and he'll be easier on ye."

"Figured. But I'm not planning to, we have an agreement." Which neither of them hold in much regard, but still. "So, we're turning around as soon as we get there?"

"No, we're making some rounds. Dropping yer big arse with a friend of Young John's, another strange one," the latter part of that is directed more at Calan than at him, grumpily.

Calan, as expected, takes offence. He curses in Gaelic, but responds in English, for Ghost's benefit or not. "Don't compare me with him. Or Kyle, for that matter. He's a nice lad."

"Bit lofty for my taste. And for someone selling fish, come to think."

"If he's selling fish, won't he be on a boat?" Ghost wonders out loud, thinking about the logistics — "Jasper. Focus, mate."

Jasper snorts—as does Murtagh, beady eyes crinkling on a grin—but does as he asks. Slowly.

"Aye, often. But he'll be moored nearby, dinnae fash yerself. Worse comes to worst we'll tie ye to Jasper and Jasper to a post," Murtagh nods, still grinning, "takes the boat out to the castle sometimes, but leaves the house behind. Should see the look in Young John's eyes with a bit of wind in his hair."

Ghost fails to see why he'd care, or what the fuck he means by 'leaves the house behind', but it's not long before he finds out for himself.

The town—little more than a village—bustles with activity as Murtagh leads their small group through the southern side of it and in. On the outer edge the houses were small and hut-like, but further in and centred around the square live the people with more money in their pockets. But, despite the market with its brimming stalls and owners of said stalls greeting Murtagh and Calan on their way through, they don't stop until they reach the docks.

Moored there are a few row boats, two larger fishing boats, and at the very end, sheltered from one side by the land curving out with an embrace of trees, a houseboat rests on the water. Nothing like the ones from Ghost's own time resting in the channels, but it doesn't fit in with the other types of buildings he's seen so far.

Aside from not having seen any houseboats in general.

The style looks — he's not sure. The boat itself is reminiscent of a Viking longship, but the house part isn't like anything Ghost has seen before. It looks woven, like a basket or furniture from the sixties, and spans most of the sailless boat, without doors but with at least one large arched opening, covered by thick curtains, and two more smaller openings along the side, clearly windows. Part of the roof is a vent, open but covered, emitting smoke from the fire that has to be burning inside. That's all he can tell from this distance, and the others don't seem even mildly surprised.

"We'll introduce ye," Murtagh chuckles at his stunned silence, "unless yer afraid?"

"Of a boat?"

"Of what lies within," Calan replies from his other side, playing along with Murtagh — they very well may be sending him into some kind of trap, there's no real reason for the MacKenzies to keep him around apart from his assumed skill in a fight, but Ghost doubts it.

"Terrified," he doesn't roll his eyes, though it's a near thing, "how long will I be cowering?"

"Dinnae ken, but yer welcome to talk to the lad. I wouldnae try anything else, fightin' and such. Not in yer state, with his skill. But most of all, if ye were to win, I dinnae wish to deal wi' Young John's wailing," Murtagh tells him over his shoulder as he leads them to an actual stable instead of just a post to tie their horses to, as if that would be any of Ghost's concern. "Us two may like ta think we're his favourites, but make no mistake."

Laying it on a bit thick in Ghost's opinion, but he hums like he sees his point. One of them does seem more concerned with whom John likes best, and it's not Murtagh.

Proving his thought, Calan purses his lips like he licked a bloody lemon. Ghost in turn keeps his face carefully blank. Whatever his problem is, it's not Ghost's. And he's not one vying for John's attention or affection.

Ghost wonders why he didn't come along, briefly. Probably his shoulder. One of them got shot, but it's the same one who's used to worse. No point in making the kid ride over here with them when he can be healing safely at the castle in lavish pillows. 

That doesn't sound like John, though. 

They leave their horses with a stable boy the others seem to know, and head down the far berth. The houseboat is the only one moored here, but Ghost sees a smaller fishing boat tied to it when they get closer, distinctly different from the other fishing boats.

A foreigner, or someone who travelled a lot. In either case, Ghost struggles to think why he'd live here, of all places.

Murtagh steps aboard first—and the shelter is woven like a basket, wicker, which must have taken countless hours—groaning with the effort.

"Kyle, ye better be home and out here quick, ye ken very well how I do aboard a bloody boat," he announces himself, motioning for Ghost to join him.

Calan does before him, jumping aboard effortlessly in contrast and slapping Murtagh's shoulder when he grumbles a few choice words in Gaelic. "We're without John, but we brought you a surprise, mate. Keep him, sell him, use him in your spells—fuckin' ow."

That punch did look like it hurt, and Ghost keeps a smile off his face as he joins them on the boat. By now, he can admit to being curious as hell about the man they're dropping him with.

His babysitter flings the thickly woven curtains aside and steps through, sparing him no more than a glance before clasping arms with Murtagh. "Been a while, old bastard. You forget where to find me?"

Ghost feels bad for it being the first he notices about the man, but he's black. It wouldn't give him pause in his own time, but everyone he saw since ending up here has been white, many at least as pale as himself. It is, however, far from the only thing he sees. Just as most people around haven't worn much in the way of jewellery, he's got pierced ears with two rows of silver hoops, another in the cartilage of one, multiple rings on his fingers—some even down a knuckle, like Ghost wears his engagement ring, though none with gems—and a bloody pearl necklace.

Jewellery aside, he's just plain pretty. No other word for his looks, though Ghost knows better than to say it out loud. He wears his hair braided, the sides shaved, and those eyes — almond shaped, familiar in a way Ghost can't put his finger on.

He's staring, and now the man stares back at him past Murtagh's shoulder as they exchange pleasantries that aren't all that pleasant. Rude as it is—and little as Ghost cares about that usually—he might be the strangest encounter in the few days he's been here yet.

"So, who did you bring me?"

Murtagh replies in Gaelic, but switches to English for the introduction. "Lad we picked up outside of clan lands. Kyle, meet Simon O'Reilly. And if he tries to leave before we come an' get him, there'll be no bad blood for dealing wi' him."

"Just Riley," Ghost corrects.

Like it fucking matters, but Kyle regards him. Slowly, from head to toe, but keeping his verdict to himself.

"Another stray? What makes him so special?"

"He saved John's life," it's Calan explaining, evidently out of line when Murtagh shoots him a look. Undeterred, he goes on. "They think he's a spy or summat."

"And you're sticking him with me…he's going overboard if you're not back by sunset. I'm not cooking for two, let alone for four," Kyle doesn't sound quite like he means that, but Calan and Murtagh both look sufficiently unwilling to test him.

"Wilnae be tha' long," Murtagh assures him, and pats his arm before taking a few steps back, already on his way out — off. "Tie him up if ye need to, toss him off, do yer strange wee magic, whatever suits ye."

"I'll make him some tea," he indicates to the entrance with a nod of his head, gaze trained on Ghost. "Come in, or stay out here. Not much concern to me."

Ghost can't place his accent, a strange mix of places in a tongue clearly not his own. It's not much concern to him, either, but he does want to find out more about the man and how he ended up here, of all places. He nods to Murtagh and Calan as they walk past him, and follows Kyle into his strange home.

It's so warm inside that taking his coat off is the first thing Ghost does, now matching Kyle's own dress of breeches and a shirt, though the styles aren't quite the same. His own shirt is off-white linen, his trousers a dark brown wool, expensive and rarely worn despite belonging to a dead man before him. Kyle's look similar to an English soldier's, though he himself does not. Bought or stolen, and not the pressed white they once were. His shirt on the other hand, while linen too, is dyed rich maroon, one sleeve constrained around his bicep by an iron bracelet.

"Make yourself at home," Kyle mocks, but he grins when Ghost keeps standing there like a bloody dimwit, struggling to adapt to new surroundings again. "I mean it, sit down. You're my guest, and you know Tav. Won't have him hearin' I mistreated you."

He motions to one of the benches by the fire pit in the centre of the boat, and hangs a pot over it to boil water.

Ghost sits down, putting his coat down next to himself, still assessing his surroundings. "Tav?"

The other side of the wicker home has another wide arch for entry, but the covering for that one is pinned half open to let more air—and light—inside, showing a partial view of the lake. Inside, aside from the fire and three benches around it in a U shape, holds a bed near the far edge, on the floor and piled with furs, the centre evidently the kitchen area, and the front they passed through a table with chairs. Bookcases and baskets for storage, candles on nearly every flat surface, though none are currently lit. It's not massive, the house, but it looks like it has everything Kyle needs.

"John," he makes a face at Ghost, both disgusted and needlessly judgemental, "how long ago did you get here?"

Ghost lets the strange nickname go in favour of passing the next bloody test. "A few days. Not by choice."

"I can see that. What happened?"

The last thing he's in the mood for is going over the story again, but Kyle sits down on the closest bench with two cups and what Ghost assumes is a tin of tea — or at least some herbs to make it, nothing like the little bags he gets to plop into a mug back home. Whether he'll be here for an hour or until sundown, he may as well share the key points. 

Or say the wrong thing and end up in the lake.

Unlikely, but Kyle certainly doesn't look inexperienced. His hands are calloused under the distraction of his jewellery, scarred knuckles he won't have earned from fishing. His face bears two more, perpendicular over his cheek from some tool or weapon, almost precise. Not decoration, Ghost thinks, but maybe a mark.

Kyle raises his eyebrows at him while tipping some of the contents of the tin into the boiling water, telling him to get on with it already.

"Ran into the tail end of a fight between some English soldiers and what turned out to be them. Saw a redcoat beating John, looked dead already. Told him to stop, John's mates arrived, the soldier went to shoot him," Ghost doesn't bother with the details of it, the ones he remembers don't seem relevant and the ones he doesn't — well. "Jumped between them without thinking, bullet went through my shoulder."

Ghost pulls his shirt aside as if to prove it, and Kyle barely glances at it, but whips his head around when what he sees sets in. His eyes wide and shocked, he motions Ghost to show it again.

"No, wider —" Kyle nearly takes over for him when Ghost moves too slowly, wondering what the fuck his problem is, "norrænn?"

"Sorry?"

"Norrænn? You're Norse?" he asks, looking between Ghost's face and his tattoo, half stunned and half smiling in disbelief.

Ghost almost feels bad for shaking his head. "No, it's Icelandic. Supposed to guide you home."

He could use the fucking help, that's for sure.

"…Not Norse. It looks similar," Kyle nods as if he understands, while looking like he couldn't be more lost.

A familiar feeling, if not in the same way.

"That's where you're from, Norway?"

It doesn't quite explain his accent, but Ghost can hear something Scandinavian in there now that he knows. It sounds deeper, though, in a way.

Kyle nods, subtly but visibly shaking it off. "I ken what you're thinking. My dad travelled, ended up there, found a woman that liked him well enough."

"And you decided to leave the snow for rain," Ghost adds, sensing a larger story than something so simple.

"Something like that," he grins, taking the pot off the fire to pour them both a cup of tea, "but we're not talking about me. What's a Sassenach doing saving some Highlander? Can't say I'm surprised they don't trust you."

Ghost takes the cup he hands him, steaming with a mix of deep, earthy herbs that he'd be wary of if he didn't see Kyle pour himself the same.

"Wasn't thinking. Price aimed to him, covered in blood and fucking limp as a fresh corpse despite breathin'. Reacted before I knew it."

It's true, but it was also more than that. He saw Price, talked to him, and instead of doubting it wasn't the man he knows—knew—Ghost's entire body felt how wrong it was. As if reacting to something more inhuman than a ghost. Price, he trusted implicitly. Some evil twin bullshit, but everything in him reacted to the danger. The wrongness.

Siding with John wasn't a conscious thought, it was instinct.

"Price," Kyle repeats his name with his nice voice and strange accent, sounding familiar on his tongue, "bloody good thing you were there. And I see why they don't trust you."

"I got shot for a stranger," he points out, hung up on choosing wrong. 

"You, English as you are, lived to be heroic. I would've put you down like a dog," Kyle's tone doesn't quite match his words, and he looks over his cup while sipping his tea. "So, why haven't they? And why haven't you made a run for freedom?"

Not a question, per se, he's been asking himself, but the guilt and blame ring true enough. No amount of excuses in the world should be enough for him to stay. If he loved Darragh as much as he claims to—as much as his heart claims to—he would've fought his way out of this as soon as he regained consciousness. 

Biding his time isn't good enough.

Ghost looks down at the ring on his pinky, too small to make it past the second knuckle and devoid of the stone representing the world between the silver figures' embrace. He failed him, too. Has been failing him. Today's the fourth. And last night, he briefly thought about touching another man without regard or decency he's always lacked. 

The thought turns his stomach in the light of day, and Ghost presses the rim of his cup to his lips, unable to make himself drink.

"I'm not sure," he answers finally and honestly from behind it, "we've made a deal. Heal and help. Gets me back there in return."

"You're going after the captain. They didn't fail to mention that the man lives in a fort?"

"Also, evidently, leaves the fort," Ghost replies, and finally sips his tea.

The tea isn't bad, even without any milk or sugar, and miles ahead of the garlic tea Rosie had him drink. He drinks some more slowly, pretending Kyle's indignant face isn't amusing as hell.

"Good luck finding him before he finds you. The man has a nose for Tav. Why do you want to go back there instead of south? Home?"

"Unfinished business," he doesn't lie, but Kyle narrows his eyes.

Those eyes. It's more than just his eyes, though. His cheekbones, his lips, the shape of his chin.

"Murder, or love?" Kyle interrupts his thoughts, but he's looking at Ghost strangely. "Someone's waiting for you."

"That's the best case scenario. I shouldn't have left."

Ghost stands up, not to leave but just to move, to ease the urge to run from his body. That's what got him into this pile of shite. He takes his tea with him, walking over to one of the windows—though there's no glass in them, and they can't be closed by anything but similar curtains—for fresh air and a break from Kyle's persistent staring. Not that he stopped; Ghost still feels his eyes on his back as he stands up, too.

But he rummages around for a moment, and exits to the stern—or bow, both ends of the boat look the same to Ghost—with a nod over his shoulder for Ghost to follow. It could be a trap, whatever he's holding a knife to avoid a mess in his home and easily dump him overboard, but Ghost doubts it.

When he joins him outside, in mild autumn sun and lifting mist, Kyle hands him a lit pipe. Simple, made from pale clay that Ghost assumes to be bone in the second before he accepts it, and fairly small in his hand. Hot, too.

"Looked as if you needed it," Kyle shrugs to his raised eyebrows, "tobacco only, but you're welcome to come by for a dream some other time."

"You first."

He hands it back, though not out of suspicion; the lit bowl doesn't smell like anything other than tobacco, as Kyle said. But Ghost hasn't smoked a pipe before. Cigars, fags, hand rolled loose tobacco and weed, but not a pipe. Which he reckons would seem odd to Kyle, after clocking that he could use a smoke.

Then again, Kyle isn't all that normal himself. And Ghost doesn't mean the colour of his skin, though that stands out enough on its own. What a black man from eighteenth century Norway is doing here, on a houseboat in a tiny town in Scotland, Ghost can't piece together. 

And still, there's something familiar about him, in those warm eyes trying just as hard to figure him out, too.

He puffs the pipe a few times, almost kissing at the mouth to suck smoke into his lungs, and offers it to Ghost as he slowly exhales. Easy, but Ghost stands by his decision to have an example to follow, the blueprint to acting natural. He presses his own lips to where Kyle's just were, casually copying him. It's different from smoking a fag, not just in action but in taste, and the nicotine buzz hits stronger, coursing through his veins to calm his nerves.

They shouldn't need calming, he needs to be in control of himself, but he's doing better than yesterday. Less insane, less panicked, less on the verge of hysterical laughter. Not that he was truly close to that at any point, but still. He's managing, even if every minute he's not underway eats at him.

Figuring out the rest should come after, but he can work on it while working on his freedom. Something like that, hopefully.

"That's a lot of thinking you're doing," Kyle observes, plucking the pipe from his fingers with a smile. He puffs on it again, leaning his hip against the taffrail but looking out over the lake for a moment before he turns his gaze back to Ghost. "I'm glad you saved him. Can't blame you for your regret, but…þakka. How is he?"

Ghost isn't all that sure that he did save him, apart from further harm, but takes the pipe when Kyle offers it to him again. 

"Doing well. Bruised, and the fucker split his chin, but he'll heal. Arm's the worst, got it back in the socket hours late. Can't move it much for about a week."

"That's why he stayed," Kyle nods, mostly to himself, "not the arm, but his face. Bad look for the MacKenzies. Mostly Dougal." He gestures broadly south, in the direction of the castle. "They'll keep him there, even if word of you has spread. Painting you as an ally, on their side. In case you run away."

"I know. Lachlan made it clear that everyone on clan lands will come after me," he pauses to smoke, thinking, "means I need a head start."

"A full day's ride, on a fast horse. If you know the way," Kyle grins, a mix between amused and pure evil, "which I doubt you do. And you can't ask for help until you're off clan lands, but you also do not know the boundaries…"

Ghost sighs, nowhere near as amused. Still a little amused. A little.

"Yeah, thanks. You could draw me a map, help a man out. I did save your friend," he points out, handing what feels like the last drag of smoke back to Kyle.

"I haven't been out that way in years. Got everything I need right here," Kyle shrugs, nudges the pipe back, "keep that, I've got another. Give you some tobacco, too. Since you saved my friend."

Ghost nods his thanks. "You're close?"

With 'Tav', whatever that means. Whoever that really is, since Ghost barely knows Johnny. John. They're not mates.

"Only know him for five years, but yes. Close as brothers," he replies, and Ghost is definitely reading into things, but he's fairly sure it's not like brothers at all, not from Kyle's side of it. "Saved my life once. Taught him to swim in return."

He grins, biting his lip to contain it. Ghost lets it go — files it away.

The knowledge and what he's assuming, not the mental image it conjures.

If John really is a virgin, he's not into men. Not with a one as pretty as Kyle pining after him.

"You'd think he could, living on a castle on an island," he comments instead, but Kyle makes a face at him.

"He didn't, not always. I'd tell you, but it's not my place. Guess it's a good thing you won't try anything like stabbing me and making a break for it," he teases, pushing off the taffrail to head back inside and calling over his shoulder, "you can get to know the man you almost died for."

Not what he's planning on, but Ghost can almost admit to his curiosity. The kid has a way of pulling people into his orbit.

After a beat of indecision, he follows Kyle back into his home, with its dried flowers and herbs hung up, its steadily burning fire, its — it's out of place and not, strange and nearly comforting.

In a way it reminds him of Maud's, sitting in her kitchen drinking tea and watching Darragh, just before she read the leaves. He didn't put much stock in it then, and still doesn't, but remembers one of the shapes she pointed out. 

Mostly how similar it is to the brooch John gave him. And the cairn.

She had to have seen it, too. If all her magic bullshit was true, Maud would've made the connection and didn't think to say anything. Not even when they told her they'd go to the Samhain celebration there instead of any of the others.

Ghost doesn't think she planned this, because why would she? But she must've seen, and decided not to intervene. He remembers her fear, her trembling hands on the porcelain cup, how she tried to soothe him but mostly herself.

"Whisky?" Kyle asks, holding up a bottle.

It's barely midday, but Ghost nods. He can sure fucking use a drink.

Kyle doesn't have any other cups than the ones they used for tea, and he picks them both up from where they left them when Ghost lost control of himself and needed air.

"Secrets in here," he muses, shooting Ghost a look, "want me to read them?"

It's almost funny, and Ghost almost laughs. "Last time someone did, they told me I was going on a journey."

He doesn't tell Kyle that there was nothing else in his future, that all of his life was in the past. Something about betrayals and moving into place, and mountains. This cup doesn't have a handle, though, and that's what Maud used to discern between past and future.

Kyle doesn't reply, but studies his cup near the window. Intently.

Despite his scepticism, Ghost joins him to see what he sees. Which isn't more than some clumps of leaves, but Kyle tilts the cup and points one out.

"Sun and moon, see?" Or two. "Means the circle of life, but wrapped together like this it can mean love, too. And here," he points to another, "mountains mean a journey, as you've been told before." Kyle turns the cup, showing what resembles a rune, "this is maðr, man. It can mean many things, even humanity or as a reminder. But with ár, I think it can be more precise. And journey, too. Hm. Within a year, you will have difficulty with this man. Or yourself."

"I'm already having difficulty with a man," Ghost snorts, thoroughly cured of his curiosity. "How much do you usually charge for this?"

Kyle grins. "Not too much. Steady income is better, and vague enough has people coming back for more. Good way to get invited to parties, too."

"You do this up at the castle?"

"Sometimes, add in some palm reading or scrying and it's solid entertainment," he shrugs, taking the cup to rinse out, "I don't think they take it seriously, or I'd be accused of witchcraft."

"But you believe," Ghost states, watching him pour them both a drink from his spot by the window.

"Sometimes, yes. Everything I saw in your cup was true, but it doesn't have to mean anything. It can. And sometimes knowing changes nothing. But sometimes, it makes all the difference in the world," he sounds vaguely regretful, but takes the cups back to Ghost and hands him one. "Skál, may the Gods aid you."

"Skál," Ghost repeats before raising his cup in a small toast.

They drink at the same time, while Ghost — mostly, he's thinking about a way back again. He may not know the way, but he should find and use an opportunity soon. Healed or not. Kyle's divination or fucking prophecy don't mean anything to him, and he can't know if his earlier theory might make sense, that he's here to prevent the MacKenzies from killing Captain Price, save one when he couldn't save the other. But that can't come before Darragh.

It shouldn't.

"You," Kyle speaks suddenly, eyeing him, "are conflicted. But you've been in a fight or two before. And the man may not have aimed for you, but that broken nose was no accident."

"Hardly worth killin' someone over," Ghost counters, having done it for much less than that. "He reminds me of someone I knew. Someone I owe, and can't pay back."

"And aiding in his death feels wrong. So you're here passing their test until you can fight for your escape, trying to make a plan. Did you even know you're on an island? That," he motions outside with his cup, other arm crossed over his chest to fit with the deep frown on his face, "is the sea. Not a lake. How out of it were you?"

Clearly a lot more than he thought, and Ghost wasn't under any illusion about that. Or so he thought.

"I would've remembered a boat ride," he points out, sure about that; aside from that one stop by a river, they didn't dismount once.

"Then you came by the bridge. Which is the only other way off this place if you don't want to swim. Guarded, too."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Kyle sighs, face softening. "I'm trying to keep you from getting killed when you decide to be stupid and make a break for it. If you're gonna risk it, do it after you've crossed."

Which might be a week or a month, maybe longer. It'll depend on Lachlan's plans over his own. But if he's healed enough —

"You said swim. Could I?"

"Gods, no. I wasn't serious," Kyle almost laughs, edged out by frustration he doesn't attempt to hide, "you need the bridge or a boat. And do not ask me for mine," he adds when Ghost thinks—without even glancing out to where it's tied—about Kyle's fishing boat. "Or take it without asking. If I didn't kill you for it, you wouldn't make it far in these waters, not in this season."

Kyle's saying he's fucked, but Ghost won't give up that easily. There will be another boat, or more than one, moored near that bridge. It's not a straight shot east, but he could also attempt to follow the coastline. Less chance of missing it, and probably triple the time to find it.

"Why are you in such a hurry?"

Ghost drinks instead of answering him.

They've already talked about this, but more than that, he's tired of talking. Full stop. Even more so this openly and this much, when his focus should only be on gathering the intel he needs. On the other hand, he did learn something useful here. He couldn't care less about Kyle's personal life, or his relationship to John, or even why he looks so bloody familiar.

"Your love won't wait?" Kyle presses him, no longer frustrated but prying like it's any of his concern.

Despite Ghost's own frustration, he doesn't make the same mistake as he did when talking to John, pissy like a fucking child instead of regulating his emotions like he even has any. He does, he's lying to himself by pretending otherwise, but — it doesn't matter.

"I'm afraid she'll come to find me," he admits, still careful to use the wrong pronoun despite his suspicions about Kyle's preferences, "that I'll be too late and miss her."

"She'd be so foolish, a woman alone? She must love you very much," Kyle unintentionally rubs salt in the wound, his eyes soft and kind, reflecting the sea on one side and fire on the other. "Did she give that to you?"

He indicates Ghost's hand — his finger, and the ring on it. Barely fitting at all, but securely enough, even if he should find a chain or string to wear it around his neck and make sure he doesn't lose it. More of it.

Ghost switches his cup to his other hand to look at the silver figures, clasping arms around the hollow shell. He can't help but recall Darragh's soft, uncertain voice, and how afraid Ghost was before the proposal, sensing it for later, not yet. How it clicked, how his sad excuse for a heart ached with love. How happy he was. Only days ago, hundreds of years into the future.

Darragh hasn't even been born yet. Nor has his grandmother, who gave him this ring hoping he'd find a nice girl instead of some cunt who wasn't even sure he wanted to spend his life with him until Darragh asked him to.

Finally, Ghost nods. "Only thing that ties us.”

That and love. A tether stretched thin through time, that he's afraid will unravel, that Darragh might sever for thinking Ghost abandoned him while he's trying his best to pull himself forward with it. 

Wonders if he'll feel it like a sharp drop. Or if he already did, the moment he stepped into the cairn and slipped through time.